


Principal, Cardinal

by Sunjinjo



Series: Wings, Scales, Nightingales [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Buddhism, Character Study, Christmas, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dreams, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Healing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Flying, Former Cherubim Aziraphale, Gardens & Gardening, Hellfire, Holy Water, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Language of Flowers, M/M, Mental Link, New Year's Eve, Panic Attack Mention, Post-Canon, Self-Acceptance, Seven Deadly Sins, Seven Heavenly Virtues, Sharing a Bed, Sins and virtues as emotional therapy, Sleeping Together, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens), Spring, Wingfic, Wings, asexual intimacy, flower shop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-06-24 05:00:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 35,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19716709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunjinjo/pseuds/Sunjinjo
Summary: "If only you could see yourself through my eyes."Circumstances (and Crowley) convince Aziraphale to complete committing the seven cardinal sins – he was already over halfway anyway, as it turns out. However, not without convincing the demon to catch up on his principal virtues.Shenanigans, emotions and revelations ensue as the connection between our angel and demon deepens, and some issues get a much-needed sorting out.Can be read as a standalone work.





	1. Prelude

The Bentley flew across the inner city streets the way only a driver who’d never even considered the idea of getting a license, or vaguely contemplated the rules of traffic, would be able to make it do. It wove between other cars in impossibly tight turns, balanced two wheels on sidewalks every couple of seconds, and always miraculously ran newly green lights.

_I’m burning through the sky, yeah, that’s why they call me Mr. Fahrenheit…_

Crowley was in a rather good mood this afternoon.

He barely even glanced at the road; even if he weren’t constantly using miracles to drive, he knew this route by the back of his hand. London might be a great and constantly evolving beast of a city, but he came this way often enough to know it with his eyes closed. Momentarily, however, his eyes kept flicking to the flyer in the passenger seat.

It’d been two months since the world didn’t end. He’d vowed to himself he’d stop celebrating these stupidly sentimental little anniversaries at some point, but that point was not going to be today. It’d only been a blink of an eye to an immortal, really, especially if that immortal and his angelic counterpart had made use of that aforementioned non-end of the world to finally stop holding back, and to start saying and doing what they really wanted. Time really did fly when one was having fun.

_Don’t stop me now, I’m having such a good time, I’m having a ball…_

For once, even Freddie agreed, and Crowley grinned his sharpest grin.

Aziraphale had mentioned, a while back, that he’d resolved to take up dancing lessons again. He’d found it in himself to get over the gavotte and was looking forward to picking up a more modern dance, like – and here Crowley had been forced to keep a very careful straight face – the ‘Mashed Potatoes’ or possibly even the Twist. While suffering through a few suppressed spasms in his chest and an ever-so-subtle twitch of his mouth, the demon had filed away this information carefully nonetheless – especially considering the look Aziraphale had given him, a look inviting a potential partner in this endeavour. After all, demons didn’t dance _well,_ but they were still more experienced than angels.

Crowley had resolved to gently but firmly lead his angel into the wild new world of dances that were actually in vogue in this day and age, though he’d still decided to be merciful and first look for a place teaching classical ballroom dancing; after all, he’d slept through the nineteenth-century invention of the waltz, as well as a few other fun dances that brought one rather intimately close to one’s partner, and well, he’d just figured there was no time like the present to catch up on human inventions, that’s all.

Alright, fine, he was rather undemonically excited to pose the idea to Aziraphale.

_If you wanna have a good time, just give me a call!_

The Bentley roared into Soho, and a few outrageous twists and turns later squealed to a halt outside a familiar bookshop on Old Compton Street. Crowley hopped out, snatching the flyer with him, and eyed the ‘closed’ sign for a millisecond before snapping his fingers and letting himself in.

And freezing on the spot.

Crowley hadn’t thought he’d ever run into something worse than Aziraphale’s shop going up in flames, but this just might be the ticket.

The bookshop’s polished floor and carpets were littered with white feathers and loose down.

He dropped the flyer, as well as his heart right though the soles of his shoes. “Aziraphale!” He strained himself – he could still sense the angel’s divine light, but something was off. He frantically stumbled through the shop, tripping over furniture and stacks of books, sending the feathers flying in a horrifying whirlwind. _“Aziraphale! ”_ An endless stream of bitter curses ran through his mind – which side had it been? Which of them had gotten him? What had they _done?_

As he burst into the back room, Crowley got his answer.

Aziraphale sat slumped against the wall, wings spread out loosely around him, feathers scattered about here as well. He scarcely reacted to Crowley’s entrance, only staring ahead with a drawn face and hollow eyes.

Crowley’s entire posture immediately slumped with relief upon seeing him, and he continued the downward motion by dropping to his knees at his angel’s side. His snake tattoo coiled into life, wrapping around his neck and feverishly flicking its tongue at the angel, trying to detect anything amiss. Long fingers clenched Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Angel, what’s wrong. Talk to me.” The demon yanked off his sunglasses and frantically scanned for any injuries, but found none. “What the heaven happened to you?”

The angel shivered, drawing his wings closer to him, at last raising wide fearful eyes to the demon. He opened his mouth, but no words followed. Crowley gently squeezed his forearm, cupped the back of his head. “Can you stand?”

A nod.

“Alright. Come on, let’s get you to the couch.” Crowley helped the angel up, his snake writhing with unease. “I’ll – I’ll get you some tea.” The demon had never known tea to actually improve any crisis, but the English were convinced otherwise, and Aziraphale had always seemed to be as well. Crowley glanced back, and then forced himself to let Aziraphale out of his sight for a moment as he slipped into the kitchenette.

He knew next to nothing about tea, but he did know how Aziraphale preferred to take it. The demon applied his sharpest look in all four eyes to convince the cup that, if it knew what was good for it, it’d do its utmost to be exactly that.

When he returned to Aziraphale, the angel had sat up a little straighter, and a bit of the blind fear had gone out of his eyes. He managed a small, shaky smile as he took the tea from Crowley. “Thank you, dear.”

The demon’s shoulders sank with further relief hearing his angel’s voice. He sat down next to him, winding a protective arm between his shoulders and his visibly thinned-out wings. “You almost had me discorporate myself,” he uttered. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

“Nothing… happened. Well, not today. Not as such.” Aziraphale seemed on the verge of tears, unable to meet his eyes and electing to stare into his tea. “I’m so very sorry for scaring you. I didn’t mean… I’ve just had… I’ve been thinking.”

“Dangerous pastime,” Crowley remarked, cautiously relaxing and willing the snake back into his tattoo now the risk of imminent threat seemed to have passed. “Best not to overdo it.” He knew this better than anyone, though he never actually followed his own advice on the matter.

The angel looked up at him, pressing a little closer. His body was warm, but there was something very cold and lost in his eyes. “These past two months have been… perhaps the loveliest of my life, Crowley. The world was given another chance, _we_ were given the most wonderful chance, and I’ve never been happier to…” His voice had swelled, but then abruptly trailed off. Crowley briefly squeezed his shoulders. “But…?” he prompted, trying not to dread the answer. Had he moved too fast after all?

“But… in enjoying myself this much I’ve put off thinking about certain matters, and they seem to have caught up with me today.” Aziraphale took a sip and gathered his thoughts. “It seems I’ve had a panic attack.”

Understanding dawned on Crowley. He knew blessedly well what might’ve bothered Aziraphale enough to have this much of an effect. “Heaven.” His voice dropped into a low rasp just uttering the word.

The angel looked back at him. “Consider what I’ve done, Crowley! Consider where we are _right now!_ I could… they could…” He opened and closed his mouth a few times, then looked away, tensing up his wings again. “I could Fall at any moment,” he then uttered in a small voice. “It’s only a matter of time.”

“So you’ve been madly grooming your wings, looking for any traces of darker feathers, making a mess of yourself and the shop in the process,” Crowley concluded.

“Ye- well, yes.”

“Trust me, angel, Falling doesn’t just sneak up on you. If it’d started, you’d know.” Something steely glinted in Crowley’s eyes at the memory, distant but preserved in horribly exquisite detail. He looked up, slightly started at the realization he’d only managed to increase the distress in the angel’s eyes. “Not _that_ bad, though, I don’t regret a thing,” he hurried to lie[1]. “Heaven didn’t deserve me and they sure as Hell don’t deserve you. Still,” he continued, upon seeing this didn’t help either, “I wouldn’t wish it on you, angel, wouldn’t wish it on anyone. But I don’t think you should be worried, really.”

“ _Wh – what?”_ Aziraphale looked almost comically shocked, as shocked as a young Serpent had once been to hear of a flaming sword freely given away. It struck Crowley how certain the angel must be of his own wickedness in the eyes of the Almighty. Something panged in his chest, and he grew even more resolved to do something about it. _If only you could see yourself through my eyes, angel._ “Think about it. You didn’t Fall for lying to God about your sword. You didn’t Fall for hanging around me or even for lending a hand in my assignments. Yes,” he allowed when Aziraphale started to protest, “we always filed the paperwork properly, but surely the Almighty must’ve seen through that, and everything else besides. You didn’t Fall when we thwarted the Great Plan, not when we swapped bodies and you saved a demon’s life, and not even when you _kissed_ said demon.” A small smile had appeared on Aziraphale’s face, and Crowley briefly indulged in the sin of Pride. “As I said, I don’t think you should worry now.”

“But what if – if Heaven is waiting until I least expect it? When I’m at my happiest and they have the most to tear away?” Aziraphale fidgeted with the hem of his waistcoat, eyes and fingers restless, gradually sinking back into the state Crowley had found him in. “If I Fall now, surely both sides will know I’m a true demon, and either Hell will claim me or Heaven will use holy water on me, and we’ll never –”

Crowley gently guided the angel into facing him, and Aziraphale fell silent. “Angel, I don’t know what game the Almighty is playing, but I don’t believe for a moment She’ll ever let you Fall. I’ve mistrusted and doubted Her on many issues, but of this I’m sure. You’ll see.”

Aziraphale uttered a small, noncommittal sound and avoided the demon’s eyes.

Crowley pondered for a moment. This clearly was a mental barrier Aziraphale could not cross on his own – it always had been, and a few rose-tinted weeks had temporarily made him forget, but couldn’t magically clear it away. Heaven very rarely physically threatened its angels, not the way Hell treated its unsatisfactory or even just lower-ranking demons; but then, Upstairs worked in more insidious ways than Downstairs, dare he think it. Heaven had always been in the back of Aziraphale’s mind, a constant whisper of disapproval at everything the angel decided for himself, and here was the horrible bit: that whisper was supplied by Aziraphale _himself_. And it continued to be supplied, free of charge, even now Heaven had withdrawn from him entirely.

Crowley wasn’t about to let the vengeful ghost of Heaven’s hold come back to haunt them both. Not after six thousand years. Not now Aziraphale was finally, actually free. He narrowed his eyes, the serpentine gold practically glowing with the diabolical drive to solve this little brain teaser.

Then that drive shifted diabolical gears, and floored it all the way down the highway.

“Aziraphale,” he spoke slowly. “You’ve always followed Heaven’s orders to the letter, haven’t you. Even if you did add in just a tad of your own creativity. But in the meantime, during your time on Earth just surrounded by all this worldliness, you’ve also been sinning quite a bit.”

The angel lowered his teacup and snapped around to face him. “I never – ! I covered for you, yes, but – we always filed the paperwork correctly! You just _said_ that didn’t count as sin!”

“I’m not talking about that, angel. I mean the seven official, cardinal sins.” A slow smile crept onto Crowley’s face. “You’re farther along than you think, you know. Consider it. Your love for the culinary.”

“Innocent enjoyment!”

“Gluttony. If your body is a temple it’s a Catholic church, full of wine and bread. Your collection of books, your silver snuffboxes, your very _physical_ clothes?” the demon steamed on before Aziraphale could protest. “Greed.”

The angel shut his mouth, clearly shaken. Crowley would feel guilty, but as matters stood he’d snapped Aziraphale out of his earlier panic, and he was still getting to his point. “It’s always irked you not to have the author’s copy of the _Nice and Accurate Prophecies_ when someone else _did_ – that’s some potent Envy. In the meantime, however, you’ve been very _proud_ of the rest of your collection and yourself for collecting it, topping it off with Pride with a capital P. That’s four out of seven.” Despite everything, the demon couldn’t help but feel delightfully proud of Aziraphale himself, a warm glow blooming in his chest upon listing how much he’d gotten away with already. He had to admit he’d always admired the angel for toeing the line just right, even if he himself had Fallen for attempting the same. “And none of it mattered to the Almighty. See, if you haven’t Fallen for any of _that_ , or in the light of more recent events, you never will. She’s not gonna change Her mind _now._ ”

Aziraphale wrapped his arms and wings around himself, still unwilling to lose sight of his white feathers. “I suppose you do have a point. A very logical, rational point.”

Crowley’s sly smile grew smaller, more sympathetic. “But this isn’t a rational sort of fear, is it.”

“I’m afraid not,” the angel mumbled quietly.

And suddenly, Crowley smiled like a snake. “I think I’ve got just the remedy.”

Aziraphale abruptly turned to face him. “No. No, not another word –”

“Knowing’s not enough. Me telling you’s not enough. You need to see it for yourself.” If they’d been standing upright, Crowley would’ve been circling Aziraphale, too excited to keep still, his voice dipping into a relishing hiss. “You need to complete the set. If you commit all seven cardinal sins and _still_ don’t Fall, you’ll be able to breathe easy. Nothing too terrible, mind, just a smidge of each.”

“Out of the question!”

Crowley leaned in conspiratorially. “I’ll sweeten the deal for you. If you commit the sins, I’ll practice some virtues. Principal ones.” His thoughts returned to the dance flyer, discarded at the shop’s entrance. If that plan had to be put off for a bit… “After all, it takes two to tango, right?”

Aziraphale turned to him, still clearly scandalized, but shocked surprise and a hint of intrigue also beginning to dawn on him. Crowley grinned. “Think about it, angel. Wouldn’t that be something to see? Come on, I’m willing to humiliate myself for you here.”

For just a moment, Aziraphale grinned as well. Then all humour drained from his face and left only a hollow, wildly worried expression. The angel helplessly met Crowley’s eyes, and bless it, but Crowley _knew_ that gaze. He’d been looking at it for the better part of six thousand years, every time the angel stopped or censored himself. Aziraphale did _want_ to give it a try, but couldn’t bring himself to make another move or say another word.

The demon shifted on the sofa, facing the angel more directly. A long, infinitely gentle hand cupped Aziraphale’s cheek. “Do you trust me?” he asked softly.

The angel went very still. Something shifted in his eyes. He smiled, and his smile held, and something in Crowley’s chest performed a funny little flip. “Oh, my dear. I decided some time ago I trust you without condition.”

“You did trust me with your life, when we swapped and I covered for you in Heaven,” the demon heard himself say, his mouth suddenly dry.

“Oh, in a heartbeat. No, I didn’t mean my own life. I daresay it took rather more out of me to give you that thermos and trust you to… not unscrew the cap yourself.”

Crowley forgot to breathe, and only felt his pupils dilate and his mouth stretch into a wide, stupid smile. Then all he could do was lean in and silence Aziraphale before he could say anything else that’d _really_ stop his heart, feeling as though he might burst and not trusting his lips to express it in any other way, as well as being overcome with a sudden desperate need to feel Aziraphale’s on his. The angel uttered a muffled little laugh and readily welcomed him, enveloping him in his arms and wings and parting lips, his inner light tangibly swelling and at last returning to its full, proper angelic splendor even as it entangled with Crowley’s breathless darkness.

“You can’t just _say_ these things, angel,” the demon eventually managed.

“Then let me say only this. I trust you,” Aziraphale smiled. He’d regained his rosy complexion, and all his fallen feathers had vanished from the floor; the angel’s downy white wings had miraculously filled out once again.

Crowley sat up, straightening his jacket with a crooked grin. “Very well, then. In that case, let the evil plotting commence.”

The angel shifted uneasily. “Do you suppose it’s too early for a nice Château d’Yquem?”

The demon pressed a fond kiss to his temple. “I suppose we’re both going to be needing a drink. Only fair to pair our evil plotting with something sweet.”

It was a few hours and only slightly fewer bottles later when they finally arrived back at the topic at hand, sitting opposite eachother in Aziraphale’s well-worn chairs, a low bottle-littered table in between. Crowley had been happy to give Aziraphale some time to calm down, put away his wings and simply enjoy the company, but the angel eventually stopped putting it off and addressed the matter once more.

“So, you’re saying I’ve already committed four cardinal sins.” Aziraphale still didn’t sound very happy about it, but couldn’t keep a hint of intrigued curiosity out of his voice. “How do you know for sure, exactly?”

“I’m a demon, I can sense that sort of thing. It’s my job to tempt humans into it, after all, best be able to tell if I’m successful. No mistake, angel, you can tick those four off the list.” Crowley swilled the wine around in his glass. “I take it the same applies to you where it comes to virtues? What’s my damage?”

A slow smile spread across Aziraphale’s face. “Are you finally allowing me to elaborate on just _why_ I’ve always maintained you’re a good person? Well, whenever you’d actually let the words leave my mouth, of course.”

“Just this once. Make the most of it.”

“ _Well._ ” The angel rubbed his hands together with something that could only be labeled glee. “As I recall, you’ve always gone out of your way to prevent the loss of human life, both from Hell’s schemes and regular Earthly circumstance. You’ve also leaned me a hand quite a few more times than the other way around, through the years. Unprompted, might I add. That, my dear, is purest compassion, the virtue of Kindness.”

“Just didn’t want to see you embarrassed,” the demon mumbled habitually, suddenly understanding just how Aziraphale felt about the revelation of his sins.

“Pish-posh, I could tell then, I can tell now, it’s the real deal. Furthermore, you’ve saved my possessions more than once, done me favours and took me out to delightful lunches and dinners more times than I can count. That’s Charity.” The angel was beaming, and Crowley didn’t know if that made the whole thing more or less bearable. “Now, you’ve also worked tirelessly to keep the world from ending, moreso than I, as I still had the hope of reasoning with Heaven. That’s Diligence.” The angel paused, figuratively sobering for a moment. “And I suppose… with everything I’ve put you through out of fear, and rather misplaced loyalty…” He swallowed and briefly glanced upwards, but then his eyes returned to Crowley, who intently stared back, his cheeks feeling warmer than they ought to be, “…you’ve also displayed both divine Patience and Chastity.”

“You suppose?” the demon croaked.

“Six thousand years, dear. It puts you up there with the finest human saints, I’m afraid. Well, both of us, if that makes matters easier.”

Crowley pulled a face as though he’d been sucking a lemon instead of sipping sweet wine. “Five out of seven. I’ve _actually_ been more virtuous than you’ve been sinful.” His eyes widened slightly in quiet horror. “Good thing demons can’t sense virtue, really.”

“A good thing indeed.” Aziraphale put aside his glass. “So, to come back to me for a moment.” He smiled as Crowley let out a small huff of relief; the demon had clearly felt the floor metaphorically heating up under his feet, and had seemed in need of a reprieve. It was the Kind thing to do. “It appears I’m short on Sloth, Wrath, and… Lust.” He grimaced. “Crowley, I really don’t feel like… well, you know. Fooling around with some poor mortal.”

The demon uttered a noncommittal little sound. “Nah, I get that, me neither.”

“You…? You never…?”

Crowley’s eyes flicked up. “Angel, I’m a demon, not an incubus.”

“I suppose so.” Aziraphale steepled his fingertips. “So… while I’m not _opposed_ to trying out this whole human-style, you know, physical sex business…” He posed it as though the idea was akin to trying out a novel new restaurant, or discovering a new composer; interesting but ultimately optional, and Crowley nodded in agreement and understanding[2], “…I gather that no matter what you indulge in, it’s not actually a sin if you love one another.”

“Yeah,” Crowley choked out, pushing back a ‘ngk’ that’d bubbled up for no reason in particular. “Yeah, that’ll be a problem.” He briefly stared at the angel, trying on the one hand to tell himself he really should be used to him just openly _saying_ these things by now, and wishing on the other that he’d never get used to it at all. “Y’see, Lust – as a sin, mind – is about seeing the other party as just an object for one’s own pleasure.”

“I could never.” Aziraphale had the nerve to look ashamed about this, and Crowley could only laugh. This was one brain-teaser he didn’t intend on solving. “I think we’d better cross that one off the list, what’d you say?”

“No Lust,” the angel spoke, a relieved smile breaking through on his face.

“No Lust. You’re getting off easy.”

“I do suppose just two sins will do the trick just as well.”

“Two sins, two virtues. I’ll go first.” Crowley leaned back, eyes narrowing. “Just to set an example for your wickedness, mind.”

Aziraphale made a token effort to hide his touched gratitude, and failed. “Of course.” Between his relief, his amusement, Crowley’s warm presence and the sweet wine, Aziraphale found it very hard to stave off his smile, and couldn’t feel further removed from his panic earlier that day. “Your virtues being Temperance, and Humility.”

“Haven’t the foggiest on how to define nor practice those.”

“It’ll be my pleasure to guide you down the right path, and tell you when they’ve been achieved of your own free will,” Aziraphale beamed. “And then I’m left with Sloth and Wrath.”

Crowley leaned forward, eyes shining with malicious glee. “And it will be my sincere and _utter_ delight to tempt you into committing those.” He held out his glass. “To virtue, and tangos for two.”

Aziraphale reached across the table and toasted. “To sin, and the right dance partner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 More truthful would be to say he didn’t _miss_ a thing. Crowley had only ever cared about the one Heavenly being, and he didn’t have to miss that one. [return to text]
> 
> 2 The two of them hadn’t yet tried out this particular menu of sensations, but they _had_ had their pick of a great many others unavailable to the humble senses of humanity. The glare of divinity and the blaze of infernal darkness[3] could be used against their moral counterparts to dizzying, exhilarating effect if one knew what one was doing, and this angel and demon were getting lots of practice getting it just right. [return to text]
> 
> 3 Although they were tentatively thinking of relabeling themselves ‘ethereal’ and ‘occult’, respectively.
> 
> Don't hesitate to leave a comment, I'd love to hear from all of you! ^^


	2. Temperance

_Temperance (noun): restraint from excesses of or cravings for extravagant material luxury, food or drink through calm discipline, self-control and balance; satisfaction and contentment with what one presently has._

Neither of them had really kept track of time, so they didn’t know whether it was late or already early when Crowley eventually departed into the noisy Soho night. Aziraphale watched him go, leaning against a bookcase with a warm, slightly hazy expression. He only raised an eyebrow as the demon bent down and picked a small sheet of paper off the floor of the bookshop proper before opening the door and shooting back one last, glinting smile. It hadn’t been a book, so the angel trusted him with it like he’d trusted him in everything else that night.

He spent some time sorting a fresh shipment of tomes into the bookcases and the chaotic array of stacks only he really knew his way around, processing a neglected pile of invoices, and ignoring any and all letters imploring him to get a so-called ‘email address’ so they might be sent digitally. All the while, he was all but humming with warmth and quiet joy, and any mortal stepping into the shop now would surely keel over in divine delight, before bolting and getting a description of some silly vision published in a local magazine.

Part of him wished Crowley would’ve stayed, but the demon might be wanting to get some sleep, and Aziraphale didn’t have a bedroom. No rest for the Good, and all that. Besides that, as much as he loved Crowley, the angel still highly valued his time alone with his books and thoughts, getting both in order at his own pace and on his own terms. Crowley had always respected that and let himself out before Aziraphale could even ask him to leave. It occurred to the angel then that Crowley might’ve been preventing him from asking so he didn’t have to hear it, and his book-laden hands stilled for a moment. He briefly looked up, quietly smiling to himself.

Crowley loved him with dizzying vehemence, and he was singularly focused on returning that love. For thousands of years, he’d only detected their growing mutual affection as a sort of background radiation, never really working out what it was, until a certain night in 1941 where the realization had struck like a metaphorical Blitz right along with the literal one. The angel brought a hand to his chest in memory. He’d been stunned with shock, both pleasant and less so, all at once. As delightful as the butterflies had been, the matter had complicated _everything_ , and he’d subsequently tried his utmost to slow both himself and Crowley down from the inevitable. But it _had_ been inevitable. It’d been an open secret between them, and even for Aziraphale there had been no denying it, not really. And now he no longer denied himself nor Crowley anything.

He didn’t want to start denying again. He didn’t want to slow down, stop or – Someone forbid – reverse. He wanted to forever do away with the fear he’d felt earlier that day. It’d all but faded now; the prospect of ‘tempting’ Crowley into virtuous behavior and being allowed to show him all the good that could come from that had simply left him too giddy – and maybe, just maybe, sins could have the same effect on him, eventually. In a moderate amount… just a smidge, as Crowley had said…

_Temptation accomplished._

He eventually settled at his desk, reverently opening an early – though regrettably not first – copy of Robert Herrick’s _Hesperides._ The seventeenth-century poetry flowed though his mind like honey, gently grounding him like a lodestone.

 _Gather ye rosebuds while ye may._ Aziraphale smiled. Not very fitting for an immortal being, but the man had still been on to something. He resolved to do some gathering very soon. He was done being afraid.

His initial experiment with Temperance took place in a garden.

A zen garden, to be precise, on the property of a Shin Buddhist temple in South Acton, a small but elaborately decorated building with a sweeping roof. Crowley had halted as soon as he’d seen where they were headed, glaring at Aziraphale. “I entered a church for you _once,_ angel, don’t go making assumptions.”

Aziraphale had only smiled. “Don’t worry, only images of the Buddha and his embodiments are officially consecrated in this tradition. It’s quite safe.”

Crowley’s eyebrows had risen over his glasses. “…Fancy that.” A little smirk. “Well, lead the way, then.”

It was a few days after their nightly conversation and agreement, and neither of them had mentioned the matter to the other again – and even now, there was no indication Crowley suspected anything. As they walked through multiple rooms of shrines, slow-moving people in reverie and offerings of flowers and polished stone, the demon only seemed relaxed and attentive to their surroundings, mercifully holding back on doing any tempting or cursing.

The two of them halted a safe distance before the gleaming statue of the calm Buddha for a moment before passing into the garden. “I met him once, you know,” Crowley quietly remarked to Aziraphale. “Admirable lad. Mucalinda, he called me. I took a note from your book, sheltered him from the rain as to not let him be disturbed when he meditated. Cobra isn’t my favorite form, but the hood came in handy.” There was nothing but fondness and respect in his voice, and Aziraphale had to briefly close his eyes and swallow something down that burned too fiercely to utter aloud. Siddhartha, the prince who left his palace upon seeing the suffering of the people outside? Asking questions no one could answer, and eventually finding peace and inner wisdom after meditating beneath a sacred tree? _Of course_ Crowley would’ve popped over to meet the man for himself – and aided him in finding that wisdom in whatever little way he could.

He looked over to his demon, his eyes overbright. Crowley smiled his crooked smile beneath his sunglasses. “Careful, angel, you’re lighting up the room.” He took his hand. “Let’s take that outside, shall we?”

The autumn air was cool as they strolled down immaculate paths between expanses of silver-grey gravel, raked in waves to resemble a rippling ocean. The calm perfection was broken by clusters of carefully arranged moss-covered rocks, tranquil pools and elegant, slender trees crowned with stunning, fiery colours, as well as smaller plants fringing the garden or displayed on pedestals. The angel and demon still walked hand in hand, and Aziraphale could feel Crowley’s utter delight. “Not my usual kind of haunt,” the demon admitted, “but entirely my style, angel, you know me very well.” He halted to inspect an elevated bonsai maple, perfect in every aspect of its gnarled trunk and miniature leaves. “See, these guys know how to behave. I can respect that.” His eyes glinted as he threw Aziraphale a look over his glasses. “Might try my hand at growing a bonsai apple tree, get it just right. My memories of the original are still sharp.”

Aziraphale could scarcely find his voice. “That’d be lovely,” he managed, aware of how much casual plant mutilation went into the art of bonsai, but otherwise occupied to such an extent he couldn’t possibly bring it up, or anything at all, really. “A perfect match for your smallest snake form, I imagine.”

Crowley chuckled, and set the two of them moving along.

The gears of the angel’s mind had gradually jammed during their garden stroll, grinding his entire thought process to a flabbergasted halt. This place of contemplation, quiet simplicity and distancing oneself from worldly possession and temptation had been as perfectly in line with divine Temperance as he’d been able to imagine – and it was completely in line with _Crowley_ , too. His house was basically a zen garden. He’d _met and liked_ the Buddha himself. The angel was inwardly reeling, and the gravel around them rattled as their gentle waves were slightly distorted by bewildered ethereal feedback. _How in the name of Heaven and Hell hasn’t he reached divine Temperance yet?_ The angel furiously flipped back through six thousand years’ worth of interactions, but he knew his angelic senses hadn’t misled him – he would’ve _known_ if Crowley had achieved it already.

“Are you alright?” Crowley had the sense to look only mildly worried in the face of the minor angelic meltdown next to him. Aziraphale righted himself, brought a hand to his bowtie as if to still the furious pulse beneath. “Yes, perfectly,” he lied. “I’m glad you like it, dear.”

This was going to require a bit more digging on his part. Heaven would’ve commended him for trying his hand at a demon, but not even the most ambitious among the angelic Choirs could’ve foreseen _this_ would be the reason he’d be hard to work with.

Temperance.

Traditionally, it was defined as the literal tempering of one’s impulses and desires, Aziraphale pondered late that night, pacing around the bookshop like the world’s frumpiest caged lion. Traditionally connected to limiting or ceasing one’s alcohol intake, too.

Crowley liked to drink, far more than he liked to eat. But he’d never been an alcoholic; he sometimes went sober for months. And besides, it wasn’t as though any amount of drink could actually harm the two of them. Aziraphale huffed a little laugh upon recalling a few occasions when they’d actually been too drunk to sober back up, but even those had only resulted in a lot of laughter and a light smattering of unexplained phenomena, generously supplying the conspiracy theorists. Someone had to do it.

The only other thing Crowley ever did in excess was obsess over human ingenuity and progress. He was always right on top of everything, poking his nose into every new invention and development. His television was almost too thin to see from the side. His phone looked as though it might break the sound barrier at any moment. Everything in his house was voice-activated. He sometimes spent days roaming that silly, newfangled ‘internet’, and Aziraphale suspected he also kept track of many more matters through that, even though he’d also caught the demon regularly starting cascading written debates on a so-called video ‘website’. He was even able to follow the strange, ever-changing slang and chuckle at the inside jokes of London’s youth, all of which completely overhauled itself practically daily nowadays.

It’d always been this way, from the invention of the Upper Egyptian board game of _senet_ right through to Candy Crush.

Aziraphale’s pacing gradually slowed.

_Hmmm._

The next time Crowley stopped by the bookshop, it was to pick Aziraphale up for dinner. They roamed the Soho streets for a bit before deciding on a place – Aziraphale’s shop was surrounded by a ludicrous amount of highly varied eateries, almost all of which had sprung up after he’d opened his own place. The angel had always played coy when asked if he’d aided their businesses in any way, and the answer had been equally obvious every time.

They ended up at a modern Peruvian restaurant serving various colourful tapas, Aziraphale for once refraining from helping himself to most of Crowley’s orders, but instead recommending a number in a way that’d tickle the demon’s interests. Even so, Crowley barely ate anything of his own instance, instead venturing to sample most of the equally colourful cocktail menu. As Aziraphale deliberately refrained from getting tipsy himself, Crowley gracefully sobered up before they left.

Not food, and not drink – at least, not in this particular context. The angel had had to make sure. The certainty still settled in his chest like a shipwreck in an ocean trench.

Their walk home was, on the surface, as companionable as ever, but about halfway back to the bookshop Crowley looked over at Aziraphale with slight concern. “Angel, you seem nervous. Was it something I said?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to reply, faltered for a moment. “No, no, not at all.” _Quite the opposite, really._ “Don’t worry, dear. In fact, what’d you say to coming inside for a spell when we get back?”

“Extending the night a bit, are we? Well, why’d I ever say no to that?” And Crowley’s grin was wide and carefree, and Aziraphale’s heart was squeezed by some huge hand that had no business being there.

As they returned to the bookshop and Crowley happily sauntered past his Bentley and through the doors to hang his coat, Aziraphale discreetly fidgeted with his own, then forced himself to still his hands. This wasn’t about him. This was about his end of the deal, to Crowley.

They settled into the back room as they’d done countless times before, and a nigh infinite amount of times in its predecessors throughout history before the bookshop’s 1800 opening, and as always Crowley’s mere presence here almost tangibly warmed the room. The familiarity made Aziraphale’s heart grow lighter, the sight of Crowley setting aside his glasses even moreso, but he didn’t allow himself to fully relax. He keenly felt the absence of the vintage bottle he’d usually offer at this point, but this too was deliberate.

He beheld Crowley’s relaxed form, nigh-bonelessly draped into the chair he’d worn the shape of his body into over the years, and forced himself through some sort of barrier. “Crowley, are you happy?” he asked in a soft voice.

“Oh, absolutely,” the demon replied. “I’ve been reading up on bonsai, planted myself an apple seed. Already bullied it into showing its shoot above ground, it seems a promising student. Can’t wait to really get started. It seems some ancient arts are just as worth checking out as any clever modern technology.” He leant back slightly further. “Why do you ask?”

“Speaking of that modern technology. I’ve never really asked, but what exactly is it about human advancement that always has you so enthralled?”

Crowley had raised his eyebrows now, a quizzical glint to his golden eyes. Something was up, and he knew it, but he still seemed inclined to play along. “Well, it’s marvelous, isn’t it, the human mind? Their discoveries of good old Creation, every little thing we put there? And don’t forget, I still have to add in little inconveniences here and there. Well – I don’t _have to,_ not anymore, but – it’s like a hobby now. I like doing it.”

Aziraphale clasped his hands together in his lap. “Yes, but no matter how much you like it, you never really seem to stay and enjoy the effects of your work, or the ingenuity of theirs. You always so quickly move on to the next big thing.” He hesitated. “I’d almost call it obsession. You… well, you outright neglected your demonic duties to follow earthly life as closely as you could, aided by the Arrangement. You replace all electronics in your flat almost monthly, my dear.”

“I miracle them there, I don’t buy them. None of it’s plugged in either.” A defensive hint crept into Crowley’s voice.

“We’ve yet to settle whether that’s actually more ethical or not. But that’s besides the point.” Aziraphale took a breath. “Does it actually bring you happiness to chase them this way?” There, he’d said it.

“’Course. Say, did you still have some of that Château – what was it again…?” Crowley’s tone was light, but there was an underlying, barely-there sense of an anxious plea that further wrung at Aziraphale’s heart, breaking it so very slowly. The angel leant forward, answering Crowley’s unspoken unease with his eyes. “I’d think we’d better not. Not tonight.”

“But…”

And Aziraphale knew, all of a sudden, with perfect clarity, that although they did sometimes go sober for months or even years at a time, alcohol had posed a different sort of problem to the two of them. More often than not, they’d started drinking to forget or cope with something; the imminent Apocalypse and their helplessness in the face of it, Aziraphale’s recent fear of Falling, something unmentionable the humans had done to one another. More times than either of them could count, it’d been to distract themselves from the recklessness and danger inherent in the Arrangement, as well as the fact that the Arrangement had still never been _enough_.

After everything they’d seen and done and lived through, one’s thoughts and memories could sometimes get so awfully loud, and in need of dulling.

Aziraphale rose and moved to the sofa, gently patting the spot next to him. Crowley gingerly sat down. “What’s all this about, angel?”

Aziraphale hadn’t ever heard him this cautious; he imagined it was a tone usually reserved for contact with other demons. Aziraphale had never knowingly pressed an issue Crowley didn’t like talking about. He took the demon’s hand in both of his own. “I’m not trying to hurt you. I only want to understand.” And it was true; even without this whole sins-and-virtues business, he’d have wanted to understand this part of Crowley, now he’d finally thought to _look._ He ached to see his demon so lost, nonetheless – and moreso when Crowley gave him a haunting stare, pulled back his hand and turned away. The angel made no further move, and held his tongue.

Crowley was quiet for a long time. His tattoo restlessly coiled between his temple and his clenched jaw, probably without the demon consciously noticing. His downcast eyes flicked this way and that, and never once back to Aziraphale. Then he closed them, and sighed. “Bless it, I chase them because I’m afraid to – to miss anything, alright.”

“Afraid to…?”

“They come and go so quickly, their lives are over before you can bloody blink. The _years_ fly by faster than you can blink. ‘There shall be a world and it shall last six thousand years and it shall end in fire and flame’.” A bitter, sarcastic imitation of Lord Beelzebub’s voice. “I’ve felt them pass, angel, felt them be stripped away. It never felt like it’d be anywhere near long enough.” Crowley stared straight ahead, his back and shoulders hunched, his hands cramped into claws gripping his knees. “It still feels like… like…”

Six thousand years of anticipating and dreading the end, clinging and resisting and desperately cherishing. Of course he hadn’t calmed down _now_. Of course he hadn’t reached Temperance. Temperance entailed being content in the here and now, without looking beyond or wanting more. For Crowley, that’d never once been possible at all.

Aziraphale broke out of his stunned daze and rested a hand on one of Crowley’s. “Oh, my dear. Hush.”

“But I set it all in motion, didn’t I?” The demon didn’t seem to feel his touch. “I _started_ the six thousand-year clock with that blasted apple. I gave them choice and potential and _creativity_ , I got them kicked out, I set the clock ticking, and so I had to…” He angrily wiped past his eyes. “I had to see it all, couldn’t miss a thing, _can’t_ –” His voice hitched, and he hunched in on himself even further. Aziraphale immediately gathered him into his arms and held him as he started trembling. “Hush, my love,” he mumbled into Crowley’s hair as the demon’s defenses crumbled and he broke down into shivering sobs. “Hush.” He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment himself, gently rocking his demon. “The clock’s been reset. You can slow down.” He pressed a kiss to Crowley’s forehead. “Slow down with me. Breathe.”

Crowley tried to regain his voice a few times, but failed and settled for taking deep breaths instead as it all poured out of him, all the ancient hurt and misplaced guilt, all the fear and helpless hatred towards Heaven and Hell on Earth’s behalf. Aziraphale held him through all of it, offering gentle words, making sure he didn’t feel alone for even a moment. “It wasn’t you, never you, dear,” he muttered. “The clock was started when the Almighty created the world. And if you think She won’t let me Fall for stopping the Apocalypse, then stopping it was most certainly part of the Ineffable Plan too. The clock’s stopped, Crowley, if there was ever a clock at all. You can stop counting. You can stop chasing.”

Crowley heaved a shuddering breath and spoke up at last, in a very small and tremulous voice, muffled in the angel’s coat. “I never understood how you always just… caught up on the past through reading.”

Aziraphale smiled. “It’s nice. It’s freeing, really. I don’t have to miss a thing either, but there’s no pressure to it. It’s all right here.” He looked around the room, glanced at the bookshop beyond. “You can always catch up or reminisce about things, if you like.”

Crowley pressed closer, snaking an arm around the angel, then another. “I do like it here,” he muttered. “But not because of the books.”

Aziraphale chuckled at that, very softly, unwilling to jostle the demon even with that. But Crowley still leant back slightly, just enough to look him in the eye. His own eyes were wide, red-ringed, fully yellow and shining with leftover tears, but also so full of open adoration Aziraphale’s breath hitched. “You’ve always calmed me down, angel,” the demon uttered hoarsely. “Only you ever did, really. I never have to worry _you’ve_ changed when I look away.”

“I’m right here,” Aziraphale somehow heard himself say, even though he really was in no condition to speak when Crowley had just stolen his breath, thoughts and heartbeat; the words drifted from him only by the sheer truth they held. “I always will be.”

New tears welled up in Crowley’s eyes, and for a moment Aziraphale felt truly wretched – but then he realized the demon was smiling, very slightly and then wider, and that his tears were tears of _joy._ “I love you. So much.”

And Aziraphale forgot all about their little deal, the virtue of Temperance, all of it. How could he do anything but stare when Crowley just said something like that without any apparent effort at all, after centuries of _Don’t thank me_ and _Shut up_ and _Nice is a four-letter word?_ When Crowley _looked_ at him like that?

Crowley didn’t seem to need him to speak, though. Just seeing how flabbergasted the angel was had him chuckle through his tears, then grin more brightly than he had on the walls of Eden. He pressed a brief kiss to Aziraphale’s lips. “…Thank you, angel.”

“Stay,” Aziraphale managed then. “Stay the night, please. If… if you like, of course.” He flustered. “Um. That’s to say, I don’t have a bedroom, but…”

Crowley beamed even brighter, wiped past his eyes, and then clung to Aziraphale like the serpent he was, shifting them both until they lay entangled on the sofa. “Don’t care. Overrated concept, bedrooms. This is… this is just fine,” he muttered into Aziraphale’s shirt.

“Alright,” the angel breathed into the demon’s hair.

They spent the rest of the night together in the back room, trading soft words and softer touches, wrapped up in eachother like a cocoon; and when Crowley eventually, finally fell into an exhausted sleep, Aziraphale remained motionless, wrapped up in him, watching over him with a heart so full it might overflow.

When first light crept through the bookshop’s smudgy windows, it felt like no time had passed at all. Aziraphale could’ve stayed here like this for days, a week, a century. As long as he needed to.

Crowley lazily blinked open golden eyes just a little later, and the first thing he saw was his angel looking back at him.

Vertical pupils dilated ever so slightly. “You’re here,” the demon muttered, his creased, muzzy face lighting up like a disheveled sun, or at least a nearby star worth taking a trip to.

The angel could only smile back. “I always will be.” He’d never meant anything like he meant this.

And as Crowley sighed and closed his eyes again, overjoyed in the here and now, without a thought to spare for the future or the rest of the world, without a single need for anything but _this, right here,_ Aziraphale felt him slipping into divine Temperance like a snake from its skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please look up Mucalinda. I initially planned on Crowley not having met the Buddha but wishing he had, and then I found mention of a snake and dug deeper. I was stunned. Crowley may not hail from Patala, but of all the demons he might just be the most like a noble naga, and as the original snake he might just fit the role of Nāgarāja.
> 
> Also please, do of course inform me if I’ve portrayed anything wrongly or offensively in any way and I should adjust or remove anything. I’d be more than happy to.


	3. Sloth

_Sloth (noun): a cessation of motion and an indifference to work; it finds expression in laziness, idleness, and indolence._

The plants were concerned.

Of course, they always were; the Mayfair flat was always permeated by at least a low-grade aura of botanical fear, occasionally spiking into dreadful anticipation or mortal terror whenever Master Crowley did his thing, but this… this was something else.

And he hadn’t even been hissing his promises to the poor young apple shoot on the pedestal, either.

Master Crowley was _pacing,_ and he wasn’t paying attention to any of the verdant ranks. This could mean anything. ‘Anything’ allowed for an awful lot of possibility.

The plants would’ve been astonished to know that this was exactly Crowley’s problem, too.

It was about to be his turn.

He’d had the most wonderful morning after waking up in Aziraphale’s bookshop, on Aziraphale’s sofa, on _Aziraphale._ The demon was fairly sure he hadn’t ever slept that well in his life, and waking up like that had been a mind-boggling dream in its own right. The angel had fixed them breakfast, and he’d been so overcome by it all he’d caught himself actually eating it minutes into the fact. And _then_ he’d been told he’d reached the virtue of Temperance, all on his own, and any demons he’d privately still sort of been expecting[1] to burst from the ground to punish him for it had spectacularly failed to do so.

A demon could blessed near lose his cool, going through all that first thing in the morning. A demon might just find himself staring and stammering until his angel radiantly smiled down at him, telling him he was just so happy and proud, and silencing him with a delighted kiss. Crowley found his current expression goofing off for a moment, and sternly schooled it into something more respectable.

It hadn’t even been _hard_ to reach Temperance. Harrowing, sure. Crowley could still feel a metaphorical sore spot on his soul where he’d bared himself to Aziraphale and allowed the metaphorical festering wound to drain, even though he was glad the angel had gotten him that far. It’d been horrible, and necessary, and freeing.

A weight had lifted off him that night. It’d require work to keep it that way, but Crowley found he actually _wanted_ to put in the effort. And that had been the whole point; doing it of his own free will.

Damn. Aziraphale really was a professional angel, at least when he wanted to be.

Still, and here was his dilemma, virtue seemed awfully complicated and dangerous from where he was standing; like one of those crocodile dentist toys, where you never knew if pushing down a tooth might lead to getting bitten. He didn’t know if he actually had it in him to inflict sin on his angel if it’d be anything like the strange and unnerving effect virtue had had on him – but on the other hand, a deal was a deal, and he wasn’t about to back out of an agreement with Aziraphale.

Maybe sin would be as necessary for Aziraphale as virtue had been for him.

A huff of breath, fingers pushing back a shock of copper hair.

So. Sloth. Sloth it was.

Crowley paced past his plants, zeroing in on the little dark pot on the pedestal where his apple bonsai-to-be sat, already displaying a handful of beautiful, perfect leaves. It emanated the tender terror of the innocent, being too young to have witnessed the more serious horrors that came with growing in this apartment[2] but perceptive enough to guess.

Aziraphale’s first attempt at acquainting him with Temperance had been terribly hamfisted. A zen garden, really, he couldn’t believe he hadn’t caught on rightaway – so what was stopping him from trying his hand at something similar, just to get a feel for where the angel stood on Sloth, how ripe for the picking he was? It’d been a while since Crowley had focused his wiles on a single soul at a time, but tempting, after all, was like riding a bike…

Could it really be as easy as he suspected? Maybe it was. After all, the sin of Sloth was based on the premise that Evil triumphed when Good idled, and Aziraphale was Good incarnate. It would be quite the elegant solution…

In any case, Crowley knew exactly what he wanted to do. He’d been wanting to do it for an awfully long time, and the morning he’d spent at the bookshop had been enough to spur him into going for it.

Crowley’s heinous plan entailed miracling up a stylish coffee table and the most enormous, comfortable couch he could conceive of into his private study, laden with cushions although still black with a subtle scaly print, as that seemed to be coming back into vogue these days and he wasn’t about to pass it up. It entailed exactly copying the miso salmon and little strawberry cakes he’d seen Aziraphale relishing at a Mayfair restaurant a few weeks back, quietly praying to Someone he’d gotten it right.

It entailed attempting to still his heartbeat as the angel arrived to his apartment and even moreso as he reacted to Crowley’s setup in utter delight, and to the dinner with stunned surprise and a cascade of compliments. It entailed not acting suspicious as the two of them sank into the couch later that night, and Crowley let Aziraphale choose from a selection of the most historically inaccurate period pieces he’d been able to find just so they could pick them apart together – a favorite pastime ever since the angel had gotten into watching television a few short decades ago.

It entailed wine, and then hot cocoa, and suppressed snickering and companionable nudging, and arms slipping around shoulders. It entailed getting the two of them as cozy and comfortable as demonically possible.

The sting had gone out of their facetious remarks by their third movie – _Shakespeare in Love_ – and after that, Aziraphale had gotten his hands on the remote and taken them to a nature documentary before Crowley’s eyes started to droop in earnest. He knew the angel loved these – he’d seen all of God’s creatures fan out from the Garden, and enjoyed following them as much as the demon did humanity – but after such a lazy, comfortable evening and night, it was getting very hard to focus.

All according to heinous plan, of course.

“Oh, my dear.” A soft hand on his cheek, a little laugh. “I’m terribly sorry, I hadn’t realized it was getting this late already.”

Crowley’s eyes opened into golden slivers, and he realized his head had fully slipped down onto Aziraphale’s shoulder and he’d actually missed a few blinks already. He couldn’t bring himself to move, and only snuggled closer after closing his eyes again. “Mmm.”

“I really ought to be leaving.”

The demon viciously protested by snaking an arm across the angel’s chest. “ _Mmm._ ”

“Crowley –”

“Can’t drive you back like this,” he murmured. “Wouldn’t be very courteous to just…”

The couch fell away.

Crowley’s eyes fully snapped open, and he was almost shocked into full wakefulness at the realization of surprisingly strong arms supporting his shoulders and the back of his knees. “A-angel –”

“Hush, it’s the least I can do after all the loveliness you arranged.” Aziraphale carried him towards the bedroom and lowered him onto his sumptuous, black-and-red satin-covered bed, and in between his stammering Crowley realized this was the first time the angel had actually been in his bedroom. Aziraphale had elected to stay in the study that first night, the first time he’d ever visited just after they’d bungled the Apocalypse, and Crowley had been more than fine with that because after everything, the alternative would’ve been a tad too fast even for him. But now here Aziraphale was, flipping back the gleaming covers like it was nothing.

“What do you usually sleep in, dear? Let me miracle you some pajamas –” The smiling angel met Crowley’s eyes, and while the demon was rather speechless, his expression screamed that he was now at the very least awake enough to take care of _that_ himself, thanks very much.

This was not exactly how he’d seen his heinous plan play out – if only the angel wasn’t so damn _helpful,_ and would just let him do his tempting at his own pace – but as a demon he was nothing if not versatile. He’d work with this. He recovered somewhat, miracling himself into a sleek but decent black number, then scooting back across the mattress. “Stay the night, angel, won’t you?” He probably surprised himself the most with the steadiness of his voice. “After pinning you to the sofa that time – let me introduce you to a proper bed.”

Aziraphale hesitated, a small smile on his face, but doubt in his eyes. Crowley had accounted for this too, however.

He invitingly opened his arms, and then doubled down on the temptation by manifesting his wings as well, opened in the same gesture.

Aziraphale’s eyes immediately widened.

Crowley had barely shown his wings since Biblical times; he let them slip far less often than his angelic counterpart. The demon had always sort of had the buried and suppressed (but nonetheless quite empirical) knowledge that Aziraphale loved them, though. So just for this night, he’d finally allowed himself to get that through his head and act on it. Seeing the proof written in his angel’s eyes was still all sorts of glorious.

Crowley’s wings were different from Aziraphale’s in almost every aspect, sleek and streamlined where the angel’s were wide and rounded. His gleaming black feathers were narrow and smooth, with barely any down to pad them out; if Aziraphale was a pudgy white dove, Crowley was a frigatebird, a sea bird he’d once seen in one of the angel’s documentaries, sharp wings made for skimming the ocean surface and maneuvering with every gust of wind.

There wouldn’t be any flying tonight as far as Crowley was concerned, however. And not as far as Aziraphale was, either.

The angel had sat down on the edge of the bed, tentatively reaching out for Crowley’s sprawling feathers, self-consciously closing his hand again. “May I…?”

“What’s it look like, angel?” Crowley grinned languidly, folding his arms behind his head, tempting away and inwardly reeling at the results. How he’d longed to use his wiles on Aziraphale, throughout the centuries. How exhilarating every inch of closed distance felt now.

Aziraphale swallowed and touched Crowley’s wing, his reverent, feather-light touch gliding from primaries to secondaries as he leaned in further. Crowley folded his other wing over the angel’s shoulder, gently urging him closer, and eventually Aziraphale’s hands found fabric and skin as well. The angel gazed at him, enveloped in black feathers. “They’re so beautiful. I wish you didn’t always keep them hidden.”

Crowley grinned. “I might whip them out a bit more often. But you’re not bad yourself, either.” He nodded at the white wings Aziraphale had almost unconsciously revealed, still folded within Crowley’s, but shyly reaching out and brushing past the demon’s shoulder, then his cheek. The demon rested a hand on the angel’s alula, marveling at the softness of his feathers. “You could stand to groom them better,” he muttered, but his voice and eyes said something else.

Bless it, if he had all that heavenly down he’d wrap himself up in it every night and sleep like – well, like an angel, wouldn’t he.

Why in seven Heavens didn’t Aziraphale ever sleep?

Maybe there was a story there. Maybe he just needed to be shown how cozy a bed could really be. Crowley knew which possibility he wanted to investigate first.

He allowed his earlier drowsiness to settle back into his limbs and cloud his mind, wrapping Aziraphale up in a gentle hold of arms and wings, a hold he hoped would be all the harder to break for its tenderness. He closed his eyes and allowed himself a little smirk. He knew very well how hard his angel was to budge once he’d settled into a comfortable position.

“Crowley, I really –”

“Mm.” Crowley’s hands wandered to Aziraphale’s shoulders and pushed his coat away from them.

A soft, faltering sound of surprise, a brief moment of consideration. Then, with only slight admonishment: “…Fold it, please.”

The demon grinned, quietly miracling the article of clothing neatly folded onto the nightstand without looking. Aziraphale huffed in fond exasperation for a moment before fixing the rest of his clothing himself, in a soft rustle and a change of textures under the demon’s fingers. Crowley didn’t have to open his eyes to know there was tartan involved, but he was pleasantly surprised to not be pushing away any sort of old-timey nightcap when he ran a slow hand through Aziraphale’s hair. “Better,” he mumbled.

“Oh, alright then.” The angel wiggled in more comfortably, and Crowley knew he’d won. He would be patting himself on the back, but Aziraphale’s arm around his waist and his wing gently folding over his shoulder short-circuited what little coherent thought he still had.

He’d been stilling his heartbeat all evening. He supposed he could keep it up a little longer to lull Aziraphale into restfulness now.

He didn’t have to keep it up for long. Enveloped, allowed and lovingly welcomed in this nest of Heavenly comforts, not even his nerves stood a chance. He barely even felt Aziraphale kissing him goodnight before he blissfully drifted off on a cloud of white feathers.

“…you’re very special to him, you know. And he loves you all very much.”

Crowley’s eyes snapped open to the soft, subdued sound of a voice drifting through his apartment. He groaned, flinging one arm over his eyes and the other across the bed, and found it to be regrettably empty.

“You shouldn’t be afraid, you should all just do your best…”

Oh, _Hell_ no.

The demon stumbled out of bed and into the hallway, where he was greeted by the sight of Aziraphale self-consciously whipping around from where he’d been muttering gentle words to the apple bonsai. The angel was fully dressed, his complete, usual and achingly familiar self, and the sight of him in the apartment first thing in the morning was enough to tie Crowley’s forked tongue into knots, even if there had been a few strong words on its tip just now. The look in the angel’s eyes – half guilt, half mischief – was enough to soften him, however. The demon recovered somewhat, leaning against the doorpost in an attempt to look nonchalant. “You didn’t sleep at all, did you.”

“Good morning, dear.” Aziraphale straightened his coat. “I’m more than happy to watch over you while you sleep, but I’m afraid I don’t partake myself. I have had a lovely night, though.”

“Glad to hear it.” Crowley groggily sauntered forward on bare feet, rubbing his eyes and startling as Aziraphale pulled him into a soft half-embrace and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Then he picked up on the sweet smell pervading the apartment.

“I’ve miracled us up some pancakes. They should be about done by now.”

Oh, for Someone’s sake. What had he gotten himself into. “You remember what you once said about going too fast?” the demon weakly remarked as he was toted off into the kitchen, which until now had only existed to hold a well-stocked fridge and wine cupboard, and seemed just about as astonished as its owner to now also contain a quaint little stove and actual breakfast actually being prepared.

“Well, you invited me to stay the night yourself, dear boy.” Aziraphale’s eyes glittered with mirth. “The other side of that coin is dealing with a morning person.”

“You’re a morning _and_ an evening person,” Crowley groused. “You never _sleep._ How do you do it?” He sat down as the angel fixed them both breakfast, and deigned to eat at least a bit, if only to send the message that if he was willing to try something uncharacteristic, then maybe so could Aziraphale. The angel gave no indication of picking up on this. “No rest for the Good, my dear.” The grin from the other side of the table was like a sunrise. Crowley could do little but let his eyes adjust to it and stop fighting a slight smile from creeping onto his own face. “Well, the wicked did have a Heavenly rest. Thank you for staying.”

“You are a master of temptation, it must be said. I’m holding you to that promise concerning your wings.” The angel’s eyes crinkled, and it was all Crowley could do to stop himself from slithering away in snake form that instant.

In the end, Aziraphale dabbed his lips and rose, escorting Crowley down the hallway moreso than the other way around. “I’d best be going. No no, you don’t have to drive me home – I think I’ll take a walk, there’s plenty of bits of Good to be done between here and Soho…” A kiss, and Crowley could swear he briefly felt the divine softness of a white wing brush his cheek. “Have a lovely day, my dear.”

“Same time tomorrow?” the demon managed.

The angel smiled over his shoulder like a Jacob’s Ladder breaking through cloud cover. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

And then Crowley was alone again, to turn around and glare at his plants as he strode back into the hall. “What are you lot looking at?” he hissed, glowering until he was greeted with the telltale rustle of their terror. “That’s right. Don’t go getting any ideas. _Especially_ not you,” he snapped at the little bonsai on its pedestal.

Something was off.

Crowley slightly bent down, his face inches from its serrated leaves. “I said…”

Oh. Oh, this just wouldn’t do, would it…

The little sapling had straightened up the slightest bit, started unfolding a tender new leaf, and figuratively stared right back at him, enduring his demonic gaze with determined optimism. _Confidence,_ Crowley realized.

_…you’re very special to him, you know._

Bless it all. Well, no, Aziraphale had already had that covered, hadn’t he.

And now he was just _out there,_ taking a brisk walk through the awakening streets to Soho, dealing out little miracles left and right to make the world that little bit brighter just like he’d done to this apartment. Crowley could still feel the bewilderment in the air, and was only able to spread his hands and nod at it in exasperation. “I know, right?!”

This was far too much Diligence for his Sloth to make a dent in. Crowley knew he’d been right; the only way to get Aziraphale to stop doing Good for even a moment was to get him to stop doing _anything,_ to get him to sleep. But as far as he knew, the angel hadn’t slept in all the six thousand years that sleep had been around.

Six thousand years was a long time to not be committing what was arguably the easiest sin of them all.

A growl rose in the demon’s throat as he realized he’d been backed into the exact corner he hadn’t wanted to be in.

He hadn’t really had plans for today, so he had more than enough time to blow off steam in his tried and tested manner. He drove the Bentley to Westminster at lunch hour, fried a parking meter to save himself some hassle, and mingled with the flocks of businessmen and –women and a few politicians going about the sidewalks and resting on park benches on their afternoon break. Even on break, most of them were still busy, stressed and tetchy, tying up loose ends amongst themselves or on their phones as they went, and he barely had to extend his influence at all to feel accomplished. A feeling he sorely needed right about now.

Now he knew exactly how nervous and miserable Aziraphale had been about the whole Temperance business. He was going to have to start a conversation with the angel to find out why he never slept, and he very much suspected it to be difficult and hurtful to Aziraphale, and just how was he expected to do that to his literal angel? How was he supposed to start that? Crowley sank down on a bench by himself, running an exasperated hand through his hair, not at all out of place among the stressed masses.

It had to be done in a pleasant and private place, just as the angel had brought him back to the bookshop – where he felt arguably more at ease than in his own home. Should he arrange a nice outing beforehand, or would that only worsen things when he was forced to bring down the mood? Lord Above, how elegantly Aziraphale had gone about it all. Crowley hadn’t even noticed what he’d been doing until the morning after the fact. But this – this was so obvious, the angel would _know_ he was only doing it for the sin of Sloth, and didn’t that just make him the most horrible person?

He wouldn’t even be earning Hell’s brownie points for that, now. He had no excuse.

Then again, Aziraphale had agreed to the whole thing.

Inflicting sin on an angel. No one had ever said that was going to be easy.

Something touched his shoulder. Crowley almost leapt from the bench, eyes wide behind his glasses, but he was only greeted by a smiling woman in a sharp grey pantsuit. “Oh, pardon me. You seemed like you could use a little distraction.”

Crowley adjusted himself. “You could say that.”

“Communication is the key, sir,” she smiled. “And try to stay positive.”

The demon forced a smile himself. “I suppose we all must.” He watched her go, quietly marveling at her upbeat demeanor despite himself. Then he looked up at Parliament, and made a decision.

As promised, Aziraphale stopped by his apartment the next night, and he was delighted to hear Crowley had arranged their favorite table at the Ritz for the first time since the world hadn’t ended. The restaurant glittered in the early November evening, their meal was sumptuous from frilly appetizer to sugary dessert, and afterwards they strolled down Berkeley Street, hand in hand, for old times’ sake – at least, it already felt like old times when they’d stumbled into the purple summer shadows of Berkeley Square and found a long-awaited homecoming in eachother’s arms. Like it’d always been this way.

They settled on a park bench in the darkened square, leaning into one another for warmth, gazing out at the busy streets of London around their little island of grassy stillness. Aziraphale sighed happily. “I do love this place.”

Crowley pulled him close, marveling at the ease of it after such a short time. “I know.” A brief pause. “How about I take you somewhere even better, though?”

“Oh?” Aziraphale looked up at him, curiosity glinting in his eyes. “Consider me intrigued, dear boy.”

Crowley sat up straighter, then snapped his fingers. The traffic around the square stilled. The wind in the branches overhead stilled. The entire world crystallized into this one moment, only leaving the two of them.

Crowley rose from the bench, tucked away his sunglasses and spread his wings, streamlined bits of starless night in the frozen lamplight. He lightly bowed to take Aziraphale’s hand, and the angel brought the other to his lips in wonder. “Oh dear Lord. It has been _ages,_ hasn’t it.”

“I did promise to take them out more often.” Crowley’s eyes glinted in invitation. “Will you do me the honour, angel?”

The yellow artificial lighting made it hard to see Aziraphale’s blush, but it was there, right enough. He didn’t reply, but pushed himself away from the bench with a sudden flurry of pristine white feathers bursting from his back. Crowley only grinned, entwining their fingers before kicking off from the ground, alternately pulling and being pulled higher into the air by the mismatched beat of their mismatched wings, slightly out of practice but so, so familiar. Laughter resounded through the still, timeless air as they rose over the trees, then the buildings. Crowley jauntily snapped his fingers again, and the lights of London burst back into motion below them like a frantically spinning galaxy. They were high enough to go unnoticed. Even if they were, who’d believe the witnesses or seriously consider the blurry recordings they might make?

The demon turned his wings towards Soho first, letting go of Aziraphale’s hand, and the angel laughed as his rounded wings milled through the air, breathless and flushed. “I do hope ‘somewhere even better’ isn’t the bookshop, my dear! As flattered as I’d be, these old wings can carry me a bit further than that!”

“I don’t doubt it for a second,” Crowley called back. He turned his wings and banked sharply to the east, leading Aziraphale to flap even more wildly. As they both leveled out, their wingtips briefly brushed together, and for a moment Crowley could swear Aziraphale had also taken out his halo, his smile was so bright. “It really has been too long,” the angel beamed. “Though I do suppose your little trick greatly eases takeoff. I wouldn’t know how to remain unseen in this city otherwise.”

“Just say the word,” Crowley grinned, unable to bring himself to add _your wish is my command,_ but still thinking it. Freddie did have a habit of getting stuck in one’s head.

They flitted over Piccadilly Circus, its lean Anteros probably glancing up with an approving smile, then swerved over the brilliant shops and restaurants of Covent Garden. Just a few heartbeats later Crowley recklessly dipped down to the dark water of the Thames, Aziraphale exclaiming behind him, Waterloo Bridge and the London Eye a swiftly distancing blur. They generously soared around illuminated tour boats out late, the angel wildly and excitedly fluttering while the demon stretched his wings and relished in the ease of gliding over water. Frigatebird, indeed.

Aziraphale’s wider wings made it easier for him to follow as Crowley swept upwards again at Westminster, however, and the angel surpassed him as they hurtled up and up along the illuminated walls of Parliament and then swung around to Elizabeth Tower. Grinning wildly, wingbeats eating up the air, Crowley managed to outspeed Aziraphale into the belfry, coming to a skidding halt inside and banging his shoulder into the massive Big Ben bell. Aziraphale came to a much more elegant, fluttering halt, folding his wings where Crowley’s still dragged along the floor, haphazardly adjusting his coat before doubling over in exhilarated laughter. They linked both hands together, eyes shining and hearts pounding, weightlessly flinging eachother around through the massive chamber with the aid of a few careless wingbeats. There was no music and it wasn’t quite a dance, but it came close.

A little later, Aziraphale leaned over the belfry’s gothic balustrade with a smile as big as it would go, Crowley perched on it beside him and dangling one long leg over the edge. Cold wind rustled through their feathers, and they occasionally passed eachother a thermos of hot mulled wine Aziraphale had conjured up.

“That…” The angel clearly could not stop smiling. “That was…”

Crowley looked over. “…Yeah.”

It wasn’t really clear who leaned in first. It took a while for them to separate, and it took Aziraphale’s quick reaction to prevent Crowley from dizzily fluttering over the edge in an attempt to steady himself.

“…I do get the feeling you brought me up here for a reason, though.” The angel gave him a knowing look. “You weren’t very successful the other day, were you.”

Crowley felt the sudden urge to reach for his sunglasses. “…Rub it in, sure.”

“You’re a marvelous tempter.” Aziraphale’s eyes were dark, and so very soft in the light of the glittering city far below. “But I’m afraid I simply don’t partake in sleep, my dear.”

Crowley swallowed, considering taking his hand but deciding against it. “May I… may I ask why?”

A smile, though without any of the exuberance from their flight; a flat, sad thing. The angel gazed out at the rolling clouds above, their bellies lit by the city. “Thank you for bringing me up here,” he spoke quietly. He took a breath, held it for a moment. “I suppose I should’ve told you long ago. It’s silly, really.” His mouth quirked, but there was still no joy to it. “I probably have no real reason at all to be so – so _fussy_ about sleeping because of it, after all this time. But still, you deserve to know, and this is as good a moment as any to tell you.”

Crowley had gone still, the angel’s quiet tone settling in his veins like ice. He almost jolted as Aziraphale met his eyes again. “Crowley, I know you can’t touch any version of the Word without burning your hands, and hearing it is also painful. But you should know that where it mentions the angels set to guard the Gates of Eden, it does not mention Principalities.” The angel’s eyes gleamed, and his quiet smile was a terrible thing. “It mentions Cherubim. Second Choir, not Seventh.”

Crowley stared.

_…Oh. Oh God. Oh God, no._

“ _Why?”_ he uttered, half furious hiss, half horrified whisper.

“Well, I failed my very first duty. Um. Apple tree duty.”

Aziraphale might as well have struck him down with a flaming sword. Crowley wished he had, perhaps even on that first day; it would’ve been more merciful than this. The demon was dimly aware of horrified tears creeping down his cheeks, but far more terrible was how bright and composed the angel still was. “Oh, my dear, I never blamed you. You didn’t know me. It wasn’t about me. I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time…”

“But –” _Oh God. Oh God._ Crowley forced his mind to break the mantra, and only partly succeeded. “Cherubim directly attend Her,” he whispered hoarsely, dwelling first and foremost on _Aziraphale,_ not his own role in this whole nightmare. “Bless it, angel, they have four wings.”

Aziraphale nodded sadly.

“Did they…?” Crowley wasn’t sure if he’d be able to endure the answer.

“No, no, there was no cutting, nothing physical. It was all miracled, the way of the angels.” Aziraphale’s remaining wings rustled on his back as he turned back to the city. “The wings, and indeed, the extra senses. I could feel myself slipping from Her, and Her from me. It was like… losing part of myself. Slipping into a darker place, my senses dulling…”

“…like falling asleep,” Crowley finished, barely louder than a breath.

“’Falling’ asleep. Yes. Haha.”

The little laugh was like the scrape of a scalpel along Crowley’s spine.

“So. When you discovered sleeping, when was it, must’ve been around 40 AD or so, those days in Rome…” Aziraphale stared out, eyes unseeing, “…I did get curious, and I did try it out. Big mistake.” He smiled very slightly, almost ashamed. “I simply never tried again.”

Very carefully, Crowley slid down from the balustrade, placing his hand next to Aziraphale’s. He didn’t know if the angel would take it, didn’t expect him to, but simply offered the opportunity. Aziraphale, of course, immediately took it in both of his own and pressed it to his chest. In reply, Crowley opened his wings and folded them around them both before he could allow himself to think for one more moment. This wasn’t about him. Aziraphale needed him, and that was all he was going to act on now, no matter how much grief, fury and venom his own mind was spitting at him.

Aziraphale melted against him, simply holding on. He didn’t tremble, he didn’t cry. Crowley attempted to blink away his own tears, only for more to take their place. “So,” he whispered into the angel’s hair, “wait a second. You giving away the sword. You did it _after_ being cast down for failing to guard the Tree.” _It’s been bothering me,_ his memory helpfully supplied, and the demon barely held back a full-body shiver that had nothing to do with the cold.

“I _told_ you,” Aziraphale mumbled against him. “They looked so miserable, and the silly thing was right there, and it wasn’t like I’d need it, not against _them._ No choice at all.”

Crowley’s wings closed up more tightly. _And you knew what it was like to be cast out, to be punished, to suffer. Unique among the Host, an angel with actual empathy._ He couldn’t say it. He could barely even endure the thought. For Someone’s sake, anybody’s sake, if only he’d _known._

“You knew it was me,” he uttered then, his voice strangely steady. He had to bring it up. He’d always been selfish that way. “You knew it was my fault, nobody else’s. I snuck her past you and you _knew_ and you still smiled at me atop that wall.”

“You just got up there and made some trouble,” Aziraphale chuckled softly. “You really can’t expect me to blame you, dear, not even the humans had figured out free will back then. And besides… I’ve told you this before too, and I’ll say it again. I forgive you.” He leant back, cupping Crowley’s face and wiping away his incredulous tears with his thumb. “I suppose it was nothing like actually Falling. Not like anything you went through.”

“Angel, you will _actually_ discorporate me one day.”

“Then I really do suppose this isn’t the time to tell you I might have… reconsidered.” Aziraphale gave a hesitant smile.

Crowley blinked owlishly. “Come again.”

“I’m glad I finally told you. Thank you for listening. Thank you for being here. Thank you for _always_ being here.” The angel looked so vulnerable, so full of love and trust that it boggled Crowley’s mind; how did he do it? Open himself up like that, put himself back together again like it was nothing? And if him merely _listening_ had helped… “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“Oh, matters were complicated enough between us, before, weren’t they. I couldn’t bear to muddle them up further.” The angel smiled. “But now you know. I need you to. I’m afraid I’m going to need you for this, Crowley.”

The demon’s fingers tensed between Aziraphale’s hands and around his waist. “Do you _want_ to try, then? Really? Not – not for me or any of Them,” he briefly glanced up at the grey clouds, “but for yourself?”

The angel thoughtfully cocked his head, his eyes on the city beyond Crowley’s shoulder. “Well, it’s something very human I’ve never done before. I was curious back then in Rome, I’m still curious now. It’s just that I was always alone and afraid, too. But now you’re here.” He met the demon’s eyes. “…Right?”

Crowley smiled helplessly. “Not the way I thought I’d ever tempt someone into sin, but… the answer to that will always be yes, angel.” He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand, and startled as the angel slid it out of his grip and wrapped both arms around his neck, within the cocoon of their wings. “Then let’s go back to yours. Teach me something new.”

Crowley wordlessly staggered the both of them backwards towards the balustrade, and the next moment they were falling, bodies and wings entwined until Crowley snapped his fingers and they separated in a flurry of feathers and laughter for a safe and unseen getaway outside of time and the eyes of onlookers. The angel’s glowing expression seared away at something within him, but Crowley reckoned his own baffled admiration was even more overpowering.

Once back in Mayfair, Crowley upped his ante.

Before, he’d only been out to see how far he could tempt Aziraphale into laziness, to see what he was up against. Now, now he understood, he wanted to truly get him to relax – enough to forget six thousand years of anxiety over what had essentially been his own Fall. Aziraphale might still have white wings, he might not have burned and screamed and struggled, but if there was anything Crowley understood it was this. If he’d ever wanted to do anything, it was help his angel, the sin of Sloth be buggered.

As soon as they entered the apartment, the two of them manifested their wings again, constantly reaching out to one another, reassuring eachother with the sight and feeling of their complete selves. Crowley had very easily gotten used to showing his wings so often and for such long stretches of time; it was an unexpected relief that was really only comparable with taking full serpent form, however begrudgingly he still went about that. Although his angel had been amending even that, lately.

Before he let Aziraphale even glance at the bedroom, Crowley got them both to the couch in the study, subtly raising the room’s temperature to be maximally comforting after the cold November night. They were both flushed from flying, and as soon as he sat down the demon could feel metaphorical lead fill his bones, hollow or otherwise. Aziraphale leant into him at once, clearly overcome by the same, although there was a glint of carefully – though poorly – concealed worry to his eyes. It was one thing to be tired and comfortable. It was another to know where that would lead, tonight.

“Tea, angel?”

Aziraphale looked over, just as Crowley handed him a steaming mug that definitely hadn’t been there a moment before. “Thank you.”

They sat comfortably, talking and chuckling in increasingly subdued voices, and Crowley gradually felt Aziraphale sink into him further. He didn’t know if it was a sign of trust or fatigue; maybe a bit of both. At some point, he wasn’t exactly sure when, they’d both miracled themselves into their pajamas, and Aziraphale’s were exactly as atrocious and tartan as Crowley had imagined. At some point, blankets he hadn’t had before had become involved. There was no hurry to get off the couch. Comfort walled them in like they’d prepared to weather a siege.

“You might dream,” Crowley eventually murmured, his chin resting on Aziraphale’s head. Both his hands were lost somewhere between blankets, feathers, soft tartan and softer skin, and he didn’t care to find or retrieve them again. “Just wanted to mention that. ‘S how the humans process waking life. First time I tried sleeping, I’d had a… well, a lot of waking life.”

“Me even moreso, now,” the angel mumbled pensively. He didn’t stir, or sound remotely worried, however.

“Wish I could give you nice dreams,” Crowley offered helplessly. “But… demon.”

“Mm. Just need you here with me.” Aziraphale’s head grew even heavier against him, and Crowley didn’t need to see to know the angel had closed his eyes. “Just…”

“I’m here,” he whispered, realizing they weren’t going to make it to the bed. As quietly as he could, he miracled the couch into something intended for stretching out on and gently lowered them both, even though Aziraphale completely ignored the extra leg room by curling up tighter against his side.

“I’m here.”

The angel’s breathing evened out.

_I’m here._

Aziraphale opened his eyes. And kept opening them, further and further, beyond his face, beyond his body, beyond sight.

Four pristine white wings unfolded on his back. He was shining. Everything around him was shining. Tears sprung into his eyes; light enveloped him, flowed through him, filled his every sense.

_I’m here._

Along with the light came an overwhelming wave of infinite love – only it couldn’t overwhelm him, could never overwhelm him, because he was _made_ for this. Only this.

_This is My last Creation, Aziraphale._

He looked; how could he not? He looked and saw the two new creatures, and found them beautiful.

_They are not to eat of the Tree, Aziraphale._

He was shown, and he went, and asked no questions, for Her Will was his own.

He saw himself guarding the Tree, impassively watching the young humans, without emotion, without really seeing them. His _real_ eyes were only for the Almighty. He saw himself, later, sending the humans away with his flaming sword in hand. He saw himself at the Eastern Gate, looking ahead and slightly upwards, and never once to the side as a smirking demon came slinking towards him.

“Well, that went down like a lead balloon.”

He never reacted. There was only light, and love, and obedience.

…This was wrong.

Aziraphale looked over his own four-winged shoulder, seeing Crowley, and Adam, and Eve.

_Do you see, now?_

He turned around, but saw nothing but the Garden. The light had vanished, at least to his eyes.

“Angel.” He snapped around at the sound of Crowley’s voice, but the young demon still looked out across the desert ahead, having lost interest in the impassive Angel of the Eastern Gate. Still, his words rolled in from another place, another time. “Do you think the Almighty planned it like this, all along?”

The humans were shrinking away into the distant dunes, and the next voice to reach him was his own. “I hoped you’d be Heaven incarnate,” he spoke to himself. “But you’re _much_ better.” Aziraphale blinked, and suddenly found himself looking down at Adam Young, feeling his mouth form the words, and he meant them like he’d meant them then: “You’re _human_ incarnate.”

He felt like something, or Someone else was speaking the words right alongside him; _to_ him.

“The Ineffable Plan, well, it’s ineffable, isn’t it, by definition. You can’t know it.” Crowley again, though seemingly also with an indefinable echo to him.

Four brilliant wings flung open, spreading as wide as they would go. Endless light enveloped him, and then, with the harsh and cruel snap of a finger, it started dimming, leaving his eyes to adjust to a different way of seeing. Tears streamed down his cheeks, but he didn’t know if they were tears of sorrow, gratitude or _joy._ Maybe all of them at once.

His heart was beating out of his chest, terrible and wonderful and _physical._

“This is a dream!” he shouted then, remembering. “All in my mind! This doesn’t have to mean anything!”

 _Who are you or I to say what the first dream of an angel,_ ever, _means or doesn’t mean?_ A sense of love washed over him like a flood tide, and it was all he could do to hold on and not be washed away with it. He tightly closed his eyes.

Then, just as abruptly, everything calmed into the merest gentle caress; two fingers brushing past his cheek, a thumb smoothing out his furrowed brow. _You are that you are, and I saw that it was good,_ She whispered, and withdrew.

He felt an arm around him, warm and heavy and real. Fingers tensed up out of a languid hold, then carefully gripped his shoulder.

_He’s here._

“Aziraphale.”

Crowley leaned in closer over a stirring, frowning and mumbling Aziraphale, keeping a close eye on his awakening. “Hey, angel,” he breathed. “Easy now. You’re alright.”

The angel looked like he’d just ran a marathon. He blearily opened his eyes, looking confused and not particularly well-rested, his hair a mess and the imprint of one of Crowley’s buttons on his cheek. In other words, he was gorgeous, and as soon as he cupped the demon’s face with a look of recognition and a hazy smile, Crowley could do nothing but beam and kiss him good morning with a bit more fervor than strictly necessary. His fingers smoothed out the angel’s pale hair, and Aziraphale positively melted into the cushions.

The angel had not committed the sin of Sloth at any point during the night; Crowley would’ve felt it. Somehow, even while sleeping, he’d been doing Good, so maybe this really was an impossible venture. Still, Aziraphale had faced a metaphorical demon and come out smiling, and in the end that meant far more to Crowley. _I’m so proud of you,_ he would’ve murmured, instead trying to impart it through the kiss. The feel of Aziraphale smiling against his lips was enough to know it came across. He withdrew with shining eyes. “Sleep well?” he carefully ventured.

Aziraphale quietly snickered, pulling the blankets up around himself more tightly, burying his head against Crowley and briefly closing his eyes again. “Not in the slightest. I feel… oh, more tired than I’ve ever been.” He actually _yawned,_ surprising himself the most as he brought a hand to his mouth. “Oh dear.”

“Any, uh. Any dreams?”

The angel thoughtfully looked away, trying to recall. Then: “Yes.” A pause. “…I think.”

“You think?”

“Hmm.” Crowley looked on with something like amazement as his angel slowly, lazily settled in, going all but boneless in a way that’d taken the demon at _least_ two centuries to master. He smiled beatifically, eyes half-lidded. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t… I’m fine.” Another yawn. “Let’s stay here a while.”

And there it was, clear as anything. Crowley felt it happen, and his semi-amazement pupated into fully fledged wonder. “Angel,” he uttered, mirth and star-bright pride bubbling up through him like a glass of champagne. “You did it.” Sloth; pure and simple and so, so easy.

Aziraphale only hummed, fittingly, in a way indicating that he really couldn’t be buggered about anything, and smiled like an angel at peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1Not that he’d ever tell Aziraphale this; he didn’t want him to worry. That was the whole point of this exercise. But telling _Crowley_ to stop worrying was like trying to nail pudding to a wall.[return to text]
> 
> 2Insofar as you could call playing a prerecorded whirring noise and miracling up an empty pot proper horror. Crowley wasn’t actually all that fond of testing things to destruction.[return to text]
> 
> The next chapter will take a bit longer to write due to irl shenanigans and me trying my hand at a few more characters, but I’m quite excited for it and it’s definitely happening :D


	4. Humility

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took on a few challenges for this chapter, and a lot of research went into it. British traditions, demonology, maps of London, Shakespeare… pretty much everything is rooted somewhere, and I’m learning so much. :D

_Humility (noun): the expression of an appropriate self regard, that is neither having pride nor indulging in self-deprecation; an honest appreciation of one’s talents, skills and virtues, the self one has achieved._

“I’ve done a lot for Hell, haven’t I.”

Aziraphale looked over. Crowley was staring ahead, expression obscured by his sunglasses. “Well, we both served our head offices when we had to, as much as we had to.”

“I tempted and cursed away. I led humans into tons of interesting situations they by all rights should’ve loathed me for afterwards, though not all even did.” The demon curiously cocked his head at this. “Funny that way, humans.” He pondered for a moment. “I mean, I gave them reality tv. And autocorrect. Some would _thank_ me for those. Been here for six thousand years, they still confuse me.” He looked over at the angel with a slight grin. “I think that’s what I like best about them, though. But, to come back to my point, sometimes I wish I’d held back just a little, just sometimes.”

“Like when you led them into breeding Chinese crested dogs, dear?” Aziraphale stifled a smile – that one had been more or less his fault, as the demon had been compensating for him taking care of labradoodles on a whim. He knew Crowley wouldn’t really pick up on this, though, as the demon was firmly aboard a train of thought of his own.

“Yeah, yeah, like that. But most of all like _this._ ” Crowley flung his hand ahead, gesturing through the Bentley’s windscreen, streaming with rain and showing only the back of another car, too close for comfort and unmoving. “Kinda wish I hadn’t gotten myself involved.”

Even now the dread sigil of _Odegra_ had lost its infernal hold, there still simply had to be some evil left in the M25. Or at least, believing that was a small comfort to the two immortals who’d been foolish enough to try and get out of London on Christmas afternoon. Honking cars and trucks walled them in on all sides, creeping forward at a torturous snail’s pace far more infuriating than simply standing still.

Aziraphale didn’t really mind; he’d mastered the virtue of Patience long ago. It’d never been Crowley’s strong suit where it came to anything but putting up with him, however. The angel briefly squeezed the demon’s knee. “You didn’t really have a choice, darling. Working for Hell and being good at it allowed you to stay on Earth.” _And in one piece, and with me._ He didn’t say it. He didn’t need to. Crowley had already turned to him with a more genuine, knowing smile. “No, no, I did have a choice, I even sort of enjoyed it.” He looked out the side window, to the other cars creeping along through the rain. “…But maybe I wouldn’t have done it if I’d known I’d inconvenience myself most of all, given the immortality thing.”

They were on their way to Tadfield. Aziraphale had exchanged addresses and occasionally kept in touch with Anathema, and though it was still a bit of a surprise to be invited to Jasmine Cottage for Christmas, neither he nor Crowley felt inclined to refuse. It’d be nice to experience a human Christmas alongside them, after a very long time of just watching from a distance. That, and it was good to have human friends, after everything that’d happened.

They’d woken up together in Crowley’s flat that morning. Ever since first committing the sin of Sloth about a month ago, Aziraphale had occasionally tried his hand at getting a night’s sleep, and it’d come more and more easily to him every time. He’d sometimes have a dream, or sometimes a nightmare, but never anything like the first time. And never without Crowley right next to him when he woke up.

That morning, having woken from a dreamless sleep for a change, Aziraphale had blushingly handed his demon an enormous crinkling package containing what felt like a massive pillow. The stunned demon had unwrapped it to find a hand-knit, tube-shaped garment that went on and on as he unfurled it from the paper, black as night and patterned with what looked to be countless stitched constellations from all eras of civilization, done in glittering thread. “For your snake form,” the angel had clarified. “It should fit – well, all of you.”

Crowley, in response, had immediately been reduced to said snake form and had wordlessly allowed Aziraphale to wrap him into the snake sweater. Their morning routine had subsequently been delayed quite a bit, devolving into exactly the kind of full-body cuddling Aziraphale had wanted to encourage.

When Crowley had eventually taken human form again, he’d insisted on Aziraphale miracling the sweater into something he could wear in this state, too, not saying much but seemingly intent on wearing it for as long as he could possibly get away with. He was wearing it now, a dark match to Aziraphale’s own loudly patterned atrocity; his free hand kept wandering to the soft fabric, and the constellation of Centaurus resting over his heart.

When they had eventually made it back to the angel’s bookshop to pick up some last things, it’d been Aziraphale’s turn to freeze on the spot, a baffled hand pressed to his chest.

The entire shop had been aglow with soft, golden fairy lights, lending a glittering quality to every dusty, formerly forgotten corner, making every book gleam like secret treasure. The angel had turned in the doorway, and Crowley had only spread his hands and grinned behind his glasses. “Seemed fitting this time of year.” _I’ve done it up the way you’ve always made me see the place,_ was what he hadn’t said.

“Crowley, it’s beautiful.” Aziraphale had beamed at the dreamlike sight of the shop. “It’s almost a pity we’ll have to leave it for the day.”

The demon had strode inside. “We’ll be back,” he’d reminded the angel. “We can stay in as long as we like, after.”

…If they ever made it off the M25, of course.

“I spy, with my little eye…”

“Angel, _please._ ”

“Something… grey.”

Crowley rolled his head. “The sky.” A gleeful little headshake. “The rain. The road. The car in front of us.” Aziraphale’s grin only widened as Crowley soured. “Bless you, _everything’s_ grey!”

“That thundercloud over your head,” the angel snickered.

“Oh, you – don’t test me, I’ve half a mind to go and see if the _Odegra_ sigil still works.” Crowley turned back to the road in a huff, but mostly for show. It wasn’t so bad, being locked in here with Aziraphale, even if the angel had the occasional penchant for being insufferable.

“You wouldn’t,” the angel in question spoke softly, smiling.

“…No, I wouldn’t.” And not in the least because of what turning the road into a ribbon of living hellfire would do to the man-shaped being beside him. Crowley turned to him. “Can’t _you_ do something?”

“I can’t just miracle away an entire traffic jam, dear. Too many factors, too much I can’t see.” The angel perked up. “Oh, but I _can_ improve these people’s outlooks, make them slightly better sports about it.”

“How does that help us?” But the distaste in Crowley’s voice fell on deaf ears; Aziraphale had already closed his eyes with a warm smile, quietly snapping his fingers a few times. _It’s not that bad,_ he told them. _You’re going to see your families. You’re with loved ones. It’s Christmas._ The honking of the cars slightly subsided, and a subtle sense of relief came over their stretch of road. “There.”

The demon threw the angel a fond look while the latter’s attention was still out the window, before shaking his head. “You know I don’t approve of that.”

“Oh, you’re no fun at all.”

Crowley’s amused smile briefly widened, but then subsided. He wouldn’t be telling Aziraphale and spoiling his fun, but he really didn’t approve of messing with people’s moods and motivations; it was the whole reason he still dealt in frustration and inconvenience, after all. To make people choose for themselves what to do with the negative influence, to choose to overcome it instead of taking it out on others – or not. That might be his _real_ favorite thing about humans; finding the ones that managed to take his Hellish influence in stride and still do their best, however much they could. He could never have admitted this to Hell, but now he was at least free to admit it to himself.

He supposed the potential and resilience of humanity had always given him some sort of hope where he himself was concerned, too.

In the end, fittingly, they made it out of traffic the human way, which always seemed to be for the best in the end.

Coming into Oxfordshire, the grey drizzle slowly turned to drifting snow. Coming into Tadfield was like driving into a postcard.

The flurries cleared away just enough to reveal the picturesque wintertime village, snowdrifts piled high against the houses and nestled perfectly in the corners of every amber-lit window. Strings of twinkling lights garlanded every wall. In other words, it was all disgustingly perfect, and Crowley briefly felt a sting of hurt pride at the way in which the Prince of this World was using his Satan-given powers.

As they strode through the drifts to Jasmine Cottage, they could already hear the sound of children’s voices from within. The cottage was decorated with purple and orange lights, seemingly more fitting for Halloween than Christmas, and Crowley gave an approving smirk. Anathema was England’s last and only true witch. She’d dressed the part; her other tastes also seemed to be to his liking.

The door opened before Aziraphale could knock or ring the bell, and a young man in glasses greeted them somewhat nervously. Aziraphale immediately and warmly shook his hand. “Ah, young Newton Pulsifer! I’ve heard so much about you. So good to meet on a better occasion. Merry Christmas, dear fellow.”

“Please, call me Newt,” he stammered, slightly taken aback as the angel snapped his fingers and conjured up a gift-wrapped package. “Angel, not in front of the humans,” Crowley nudged him, flashing Newt a grin. “So sorry. Here’s mine.” He placed a second present on Aziraphale’s before following the angel inside.

Sweet smells and excited voices pervaded the cottage. Aziraphale beamed as he greeted Anathema in the kitchen, where she’d been baking something with Wensleydale’s help, and moved on to the living room where Brian, Pepper and Adam had been having an animated discussion over an equally animated game of cards, which at a glance Crowley recognized were being used to play three different games at once. “Most joyous Solstice to all of –”

Crowley sauntered to his side. “Merry Crisis,” he deadpanned, and Adam caught his obscured eyes for half a heartbeat before snorting and bursting into laughter. Aziraphale shot the demon a foul look. “Really, Crowley.”

“Really,” he nodded back, before taking a seat and observing the children’s antics in amusement. Adam glanced back at him and Aziraphale with a grin, and the demon softened somewhat. The boy seemed to like them both – even him. He and Anathema were unique in that regard. As a demon, he might not be able to sense love in others, but he could sense unease. He was inspiring it in Brian and Pepper right now, and as Newton came back into the room he was positively alight with it. “Thank you for your gift, Mr. Crowley.” He all but avoided Crowley’s eyes as he spoke, before addressing Aziraphale. “And you, Mr. Fell.”

“You’re most welcome. I copied it myself. You wouldn’t have had much use for the books themselves, they’re all but crumbling apart, would be unwise to let them leave the shop.” Crowley listened as Aziraphale explained the ancient Greek device detailed in the copied pages; a mechanism used for predicting the movement of celestial bodies, and essentially one of the world’s earliest computers and divination devices, at the same time. Newt might be able to tinker one together for Anathema to use without breaking it in the process; it would be an interesting experiment, at the very least. The demon smirked thinking of his own gift; a devilish puzzle consisting of multiple interlocking rings, that’d be sure to entertain and frustrate the couple in equal measure.

Anathema and Wensleydale entered the room, carrying a beautifully decorated Christmas pudding, to the delight of the other Them. Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “I thought those were usually for dessert?”

“Yeah, but Anathema agreed we should have it first,” Brian replied, scrambling to dig in. Anathema managed to salvage slices for Crowley and Aziraphale before the children could really get a hold. As Crowley slid his onto Aziraphale’s plate, the young witch sat down and leaned forward. “Thank you so much for coming.”

“Thank you for having us,” Aziraphale spoke warmly. “We’d love to make a few good memories.”

Anathema smiled at the memory of the past summer. “Agreed, the same goes for me.” She settled in, looking up at the two of them somewhat apologetically. “Newt and I were at a bit of a loss as to what to get you, what with you being…” A gesture, somehow conveying exactly what was meant. “There’s probably nothing we could get you that you don’t have already, I mean.” Crowley leaned back with a smirk, Aziraphale’s hands immediately fluttering into heartfelt gestures of their own. “Not a problem at all, my dear.”

“Still.” Anathema reached to the shelf behind her. “We wanted you to have this.” With a brief flourish, she took out a very familiar book. The angel’s eyes widened. “Oh –”

“I know they’ve run out,” Anathema hurried. “They’re, well, all but useless. But as you told me about your collection of prophecy books…”

Aziraphale only wordlessly beamed down at the _Nice and Accurate Prophecies,_ his eyes glittering a bit more brightly than usual. As he reverently opened the book, he had to blink something back. “Crowley, look.” A lone scrap of paper sat on the crayon-embellished title page. _…for soon enouff ye will be playing with fyre._ “I’d sent it back with the first letter, but…”

“We’ll frame that one,” the demon smiled, resting a hand on the speechless angel’s knee. “Hang it in the back room.” He looked up at Anathema, giving a sincere nod. “Thank you, miss.”

“I also have something for you. Newt’s idea.” The witch shared a smile with her boyfriend as she took a small amulet from her dress pocket, an engraved black gem dangling on a gold chain. “It’s the strongest one I have, it’s been in the family for generations. It’ll detect and home in on any occult activity, save for your own as long as you keep it on you.”

Crowley reached out and took it, shivering as he briefly touched the gem. “Black tourmaline,” he knew, suddenly struggling to keep from breaking out in scales all over or manifesting his wings. “Oof, that’s… that’s a strong sigil, amplifying the gem like that.” He quickly tucked it away, not letting it touch his skin. “Thanks. That could come in handy.” They _had_ both been cut off from their respective head offices, after all – they wouldn’t be able to sense Heaven or Hell coming now.

He resolved to keep in contact with these humans too. They were wise and understanding way beyond their years, and definitely worth knowing.

At the table, the Them had grown bored of their cards and had continued their good-natured bickering without the distraction of the game. “I’m telling you,” Adam was saying, “Santa really did visit. He always does. Drinks the brandy and eats the mince pies and everything.”

“Santa’s just a grownup invention to keep you from questioning anything,” Pepper sighed in exasperation. “I mean, how’s he supposed to fly if he drinks _everybody’s_ brandy? And another thing, why would burning the letters send them to the North Pole?”

“Actually, he’s supposed to read them in the smoke from his own fireplace,” Wensleydale chimed in. “But it’s all rubbish. My parents told me he isn’t real. Years ago in fact.” His tone seemed to suggest that ought to be that.

“Since when do grownups know best?” Adam protested, and this seemed to make the other Them reconsider. After what they’d each seen and done last summer, those words held a little more meaning. “Anyway, it’s true. He let Rudolph poke his head into my window for me to pet. Dog got all jealous. His nose doesn’t glow, though, he’s just a _regular_ flying reindeer.”

“Maybe next year we can make him a nose light,” Brian suggested, not at all taken aback by these revelations. The Them subsequently became immersed in the logistics of arranging such a thing. Adam briefly looked back at Crowley and Aziraphale, who’d been listening in amusement, and the angel gave an appreciative little smile.

“Are you _actually_ an angel and a demon?” Wensleydale then spoke up, following Adam’s gaze. Adam nodded and opened his mouth to speak before the duo could react, but Pepper was quicker. “Let’s hear it from them.”

“Yes, we are, child. Although we no longer work for Heaven and Hell, so fear not.”

“’Fear not’?” Crowley grinned. “Your Cherub is showing, angel.”

Aziraphale briefly rolled his eyes at him. “Do spare me. Principality and proud.” He smiled, and Crowley felt a pang of admiration. The wound had been old and deep, but with a bit of love and effort, it was healing clean.

“If you’re an actual angel, where’s your halo? Where are his horns and tail?”

Crowley scoffed in offense as Aziraphale stifled a smile. “ _Horns?_ Can’t believe you lot still believe that.”

Pepper studied him with bone-chilling scrutiny. “You’ve got a snake next to your ear, though.” Her eyes flicked down. “A snake belt. Scaly shoes. I do like your sweater.”

“Me too.”

“Actually, why are you wearing sunglasses indoors?” Wensleydale wanted to know.

“You’ve _seen_ his eyes at the airbase,” Adam spoke, turning to his friend. “He just wants to make sure you don’t run scared.” He earnestly grinned at the demon. “I think they’re wicked.” His tone suggested this was a very good thing, but the demon’s mouth still quirked in something that wasn’t joy. Still, he leaned forward and momentarily slid down his glasses, granting the other Them a peek at his yellow eyes. “Wicked, are they now.”

“Are you actually a snake?”

“More or less.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Brian insisted, “you’ve still got arms and legs and everything.”

From the corner of his eye, Crowley was aware of Aziraphale intently looking at him, before abruptly leaning forward and reaching behind Brian’s ear. “Oh, look here. What’s this, now?” The boy recoiled as the angel conjured up – with an actual miracle this time, not a shoddily prepared trick – a brightly coloured Christmas cracker. Brian stared. “How’d that fit there?”

“I’m a _very_ talented magician, my boy. I’ve had lots of time to practice.” And here Crowley remembered how to smile, letting out an amused snort. Aziraphale shot him a look, but there was no sting to it. The demon’s expression softened. _Thank you._

On the Them’s eager demand, Aziraphale pulled more crackers out of thin air, and as the children pulled them open Crowley enhanced the resulting pops with a bit more noise and harmless sparks. As expected, their miracles were soon forgotten in favour of the cheap plastic toys, paper crowns and horrendous puns found within, and Crowley found himself quietly groaning for a minute straight before recalling he’d been the one to invent puns to begin with.

The children left to their own homes before dinner, and the two found themselves in a calmer cottage with Newt and Anathema. Newt had occasionally popped into the kitchen to check on dinner, and eventually served up a surprisingly good Christmas feast with all the gravy-soaked British classics Crowley knew Aziraphale had had a firm hand in back in the day[1]. The angel was visibly delighted to see his contributions to the tradition had held up through the years.

“It’s so good to celebrate alongside humans again,” Aziraphale smiled sincerely after they’d finished. “Thank you so much for having us, both of you.”

“It’s been a long time since we actually took part in some traditions,” Crowley agreed, comfortably sipping brandy. “Even at the Dowling estate we usually just… withdrew.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale perked up. “Speaking of that. Anathema, I know you’re keeping the prophecy cards, but is there any chance I might have a look at them before we pop along? I’ve been very interested in your family’s interpretations, especially the faulty ones. They are sort of like… misprints.”

“Like your Infamous Bibles,” the witch chuckled. “Yes, of course.” She led the angel out of the room, and Crowley suddenly found himself alone with Newt.

Newton Pulsifer had been on the quiet side all evening, as had Crowley. They’d been content just watching and listening to the others most of the time. However, Crowley had plainly been able to sense the young man’s unease, as well as a growing curiosity he didn’t even need his demonic senses for.

“Go on,” he spoke quietly, never one to beat around the bush. “Spit it out.”

“Oh.” Newt barely kept from jolting. “Um. I’m sorry for –”

“For staring?” Crowley smirked. “Don’t worry, I get that a lot – when not trying to blend in, that is. Came as myself tonight.” He leaned forward. “I am sensing,” he drawled, “that you have a question.”

“It’s nothing, really, I –” Newt slightly backed away as Crowley lowered his glasses and granted him a glimpse of sulphur yellow. “I just – well. I was wondering. You’re a fallen angel.”

“Yes?”

“How did that… happen? What did you do that was so bad?”

Oh boy. Humans and their curiosity; you either loved it or hated it, and after all this time he still didn’t know where he stood himself. “Just asked the wrong questions,” Crowley habitually parroted, swilling his brandy around. “Got curious, like you.”

Newt frowned in puzzlement. “And that was enough?”

“I’m afraid the old days were not very good days. Well. This being before days were invented, of course.”

“It just doesn’t… seem like something worth punishing so severely.”

“Enough to be cast out,” the demon remarked flippantly. He sensed another question on Newt’s tongue, and he knew what it was – _What did you ask?_ – but the lad must’ve sensed Crowley’s mood turning as well, as he kept his words to himself.

Voices approached from further in the cottage. “They were so creative,” he could hear Aziraphale laughing. “I really must applaud them all. Those remarks on Bismarck, oh my.”

Crowley abruptly rose. “It’s been lovely,” he nattered, reaching out and shaking Newt’s hand before he could pull away, then rising to his feet, “but we really must be off. Got to see all you needed, angel?”

“Oh yes, quite.” Aziraphale turned to Newt and Anathema, the picture of angelic radiance. “Thank you so much for having us. Have a lovely New Year’s, you two.”

“You as well,” Anathema smiled. “We’ll be in touch?”

“Of course!”

Crowley had to take his angel’s arm. “Come on,” he spoke with a fond smile. “Before morning comes and traffic starts up again.”

As they got into the Bentley, Aziraphale was still positively glowing, animatedly gesturing all over the place as he talked about this and that, how nice it was to actually spend time with humans, how lovely it’d been to see the kids again and how well Adam was holding up, how he hoped Newt could make sense of the contraption detailed in his gift. Crowley smiled and nodded along as he drove, content to listen. Eventually, though, his smile diminished, and Aziraphale took notice. “Oh, listen to me prattling on. I do so hope you’ve also had a nice evening, my love.” He leaned in, briefly touching their shoulders together. “I hadn’t expected you to show your eyes to the children.” Warmth and pride suffused his voice.

“Eh, they’d seen them once before. Nothing for it at the airbase.” Crowley fell silent, but something inside him was still restlessly coiling around, and he knew Aziraphale could feel it. Before the angel could ask, he spoke up himself. “Pulsifer wanted to know why I Fell.”

Aziraphale’s breath faltered. “…Oh dear.”

Crowley stared straight ahead as Tadfield’s gentle snowfall turned into drizzle on the windshield, the wipers setting themselves into motion. “Can’t blame him, he’s a bright lad, very _curious._ ” A brief snort. “I mean, I really only have myself to blame for that, don’t I.”

“What… did you tell him?” the angel asked very cautiously.

“What I tell everyone. Wrong questions.” The demon sniffed. “He didn’t seem to think it was a proper reason for such punishment.” And then he went very still, realizing what he’d said, realizing what must be going through Aziraphale’s mind now. Something in him froze up, going as stony and dark as black tourmaline.

Aziraphale stammered for a moment, his eyes reflexively flicking Up, then ahead, then back to Crowley. He took the demon’s free hand. “Well, if She ever erred, it must’ve been then.”

Crowley abruptly turned and stared at the angel, the road forgotten. _Not just going against Heaven, but God Herself, too?_ They briefly sat in tense silence, and it clearly took everything Aziraphale had not to manifest his wings, check their colour. After a minute of a striking amount of nothing whatsoever happening (and the Bentley helpfully having taken over the whole driving business), they both managed to relax somewhat. Aziraphale chuckled with the giddiness of adrenalin. “Um, in any case, I’m glad Hell had one halfway decent demon working for them, and moreso that he was the one sent to oppose me here on Earth.”

The demon grinned, and the angel was more than relieved to see it. After a bit, though, the smile subsided and made way for something that might’ve looked like a neutral expression to someone unfamiliar with All Things Crowley, but after six thousand years Aziraphale decidedly wasn’t that anymore. _You do agree, though,_ was what that expression said. _It wasn’t a proper reason for Falling. I wasn’t a proper angel, and then I wasn’t a proper demon, either._

Usually, Crowley seemed to be satisfied with who he was, comfortable in his skin as only a snake who never shed could ever be. Cool and confident, swaggering through life like he always knew exactly where he was going. Now, the angel began to realize that was mostly the case in _his_ presence, and that others coming too close and truly Seeing him could still make a serious dent in that gleaming, carefully polished exterior.

Aziraphale, who had been pondering the virtue of divine Humility for a while now and had been tentatively testing the demon’s sense of Pride, at last received something of an epiphany concerning the other side of the coin, but still found himself at a loss. He would always give Crowley all the love he had, but he couldn’t make him love himself.

A mere six days later, that was about to change.

They hadn’t taken the fairy lights out of the bookshop after Christmas, or after Boxing Day. In fact, they only appeared to have multiplied, perhaps through a generous miracle of Crowley’s, or perhaps simply through the love Aziraphale felt every time he looked up while passing under them. They’d concentrated around the walls of the back room, clustering in corners, wreathing the shelves and reflecting in the glass of the small picture frame put up above the sofa, containing a lone scrap of paper with a single sentence of printed text. They bathed everything in golden light, and occasionally appeared to flicker like a thousand candles, setting an almost holy atmosphere, although not quite all the way there.

The dreamlike feeling in the air could also have something to do with the angel and demon entwined on that sofa, neither of them sparing a glance at the lights so kindly setting the mood.

Outside, New Year’s Eve was nearing ten PM, and more and more stray fireworks were being set off. Inside, there was mulled wine and a still-unopened bottle of champagne, and Aziraphale was doing his best to set off as many of Crowley’s scales under his hands and mouth as possible.

They’d spent a lovely evening at the Globe Theatre at a showing of _The Winter’s Tale,_ one of Crowley’s favourite Shakespearean comedies, as well as one of the most romantic. Seeing how the demon had subtly wiped something away underneath his sunglasses as queen Hermione’s statue had come back to life at the play’s unexpected happy ending, Aziraphale has seen himself proven right in his suspicions that Crowley had always liked it on account of him being a big old sap. He’d told him as much, heart leaping into his throat as he’d uttered the once-forbidden words. Crowley had just turned to him, giving him an obscured look even he couldn’t readily decipher, and then surged in to kiss him silly in the middle of the theatre. He’d broken off the kiss just as abruptly and turned away from the dizzy angel, wearing a slight blush but also the most insufferably smug grin Aziraphale had ever seen.

On their way back to the bookshop, the angel had decided he wasn’t going to stand for that. Before they ventured into their first new year together, he’d set the record straight. And so they’d ended up on the sofa, one thing had led to another, and now Aziraphale had somehow lost his coat and bowtie while Crowley’s jacket had been flung to the floor and his blouse was half undone, showing a fair amount of chest. Each lost in the other, Aziraphale had manifested his wings and his pale hair was crowned with dancing ethereal light, while scales flickered across Crowley’s shuddering chest and the hollow of his throat. As he ever-so-gently caught Aziraphale’s lower lip in newly manifested fangs and swiped a forked tongue past, the angel uttered a delighted little sound, and the lights around them swam and glittered as he redoubled his own efforts.

They were still very careful with eachother, but their touches grew ever more experienced and sure. Aziraphale’s innate light and Crowley’s darkness reached for eachother along with their physical bodies, entwining, venturing ever further into the other’s essence. They darted through feathers and scales, serrated leaves and yellowed pages, bright fascination and deep contentment. Whispers were left along the way like precious gifts. _I adore you – You’re amazing – You’re so beautiful –_ Neither of them knew who murmured what. They were dangerously close to the point of merging into one entity.

As hands and lips wandered and heartbeats quickened, Crowley’s shadow soared across something like an ocean at daybreak, glittering, alive with golden light. Aziraphale’s glow spiraled into a velvet-dark sky full of shimmering stars. They held onto eachother, gliding further up and further into the other, drunk on and reeling with eachother’s presence –

– and then there was something shining too brightly and blazing too darkly to look at directly, and the two of them both jolted backwards. Light and darkness withdrew. Eyes opened, and little gasps of breath puffed against the other’s lips.

Aziraphale sat up first, just slightly. “Oh. Um. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Crowley managed. “It’s… it’s a lot.”

_We’d probably explode._

The angel smiled shyly, only briefly meeting the demon’s eyes. “No sense in going too fast, I suppose.”

Crowley instantly melted, hands coming to rest around Aziraphale’s soft waist, brushing past his wings. “I could never ask for more than this,” he smiled softly, taking in the radiant angel above him, halo still shining. “Go- Sa- _Someone’s_ sakes, but you’re beautiful. Devastating,” he added as Aziraphale blushed. “I’ll never know what you see in me.”

The angel’s wings abruptly ruffled, something like hurt flashing across his eyes. Then he huffed a little sigh, softening. “There are no words in the language of Heaven to describe you,” he murmured fondly. “If only you could see yourself through my eyes.”

Crowley only smiled up at him, absolutely besotted, looking every bit like a demon who could die happy right now.

Then he frowned, wrinkling his nose. His head whipped to the side, eyes wide in sudden alarm. “Something’s burning.”

Aziraphale followed his gaze. “Your jacket!” He lifted off Crowley with slight aid of his wings, allowing the demon to scramble to pick up the article of clothing and search it for whatever was searing a smoking hole into the dark fabric – and widening his eyes as Crowley lifted out the black tourmaline amulet. The little stone was hissing, the engraved sigil alight with a hellish orange glow. As soon as it dangled from Crowley’s fingers, the pendant turned, seemingly indicating a direction.

“Something… Hellish.” Aziraphale’s eyes were wide. “Here in London.”

Crowley stared at the amulet like it owed him money, then ahead through the bookshop. “It’s close. Just beyond Golden Square, I reckon. Strong presence.”

“Crowley –”

The demon shrugged on his jacket and wrapped the golden chains around his hand, not letting the stone touch him. “I’m going.” He glanced at Aziraphale. “You scared them off with my face once already. Let’s see if that works a second time, won’t we?” He grinned through the worry in his yellow eyes, before conjuring up his sunglasses with a snap. “Better to find them before they find us. Be back before you know it.”

Aziraphale gripped his shoulder before he could take another step. “I’m coming with you. We did it together last time too.”

“Angel, I’m trying to prevent _whatever_ that is from causing a mess in London. Don’t make me worry about you as well. Once was quite enough.” The demon’s voice was controlled, but it was clearly a temporary state of affairs. “Even discorporation would be… a little more than just _inconvenient,_ these days.”

“Yes, but the same applies to you! Is there really nothing I can do? Not even from a safe distance?”

Crowley frowned. Then he hesitated, forcing himself to consider it despite his better judgement. “Well – ngh. Yeah, maybe – maybe there is.”

Aziraphale brightened, and Crowley told him.

Flying was faster than taking the Bentley, so that’s what he did.

With just a heartbeat of freezing time and all passers-by in the street, Crowley had taken to the air with great frenzied beats of his black wings, soaring west through the freezing winter air and the blue haze of firework smoke already veiling most of London. Every now and then, a firework would whizz his way, but he sternly redirected them all with very pointed glances.

This was not how he’d intended to spend this New Year’s Eve. He’d spent enough of them alone or in demonic company already. He briefly growled; whoever dared spoil this night, he’d give them more than just a piece of his mind.

Anathema’s amulet led him straight and true. The orange glow of the sigil heated to yellow, then white. It turned too bright to endure just as Crowley passed over a darkened art gallery almost exactly between Soho and Mayfair, and the demon narrowed his eyes as he circled. This was starting to feel personal, and he hated it.

He landed silently, folded his wings and gave the rooftop fire escape an ultimatum. It opened with a hasty creak, and Crowley slipped into the darkness.

Abandoned hallways and empty rooms awaited, the art on the walls forlorn without anyone to appreciate it. He would’ve taken off his sunglasses to aid his night vision, but found he preferred to keep them on. He could at least tell himself they somewhat stilled his hammering heart.

He crept out into the lobby and past the cloakroom, and then he heard it.

Something chittered in the dark of the cafeteria. Strangely familiar light flickered across the floor.

Crowley felt the urge to press himself against the wall and peer around the corner, but what good would that do, really? And so he straightened his jacket and simply sauntered in, raising a half-hearted hand in greeting. “Hey.”

Something decidedly inhuman looked up from where it crouched between the empty tables and chairs, lit from below by an orange glow. It rose, and too many too-sharp teeth were bared in a grin. “Ah, _there_ you are! I wondered when you might show up.” A slender hand, segmented and without fingernails, extended in invitation. “Come, join me, serpent.”

“ _Xaphan,_ ” Crowley uttered in recognition, instantly taken aback but freezing himself in place as not to give away his nerves. He slipped back into the old masquerade rather nicely. “Bringer of the Burning Sky. What a surprise.” His eyes flicked to what the other demon was standing over, and it took everything he had not to let the mask crack. “Still – still fond of the old specialty, then?”

“Oh, it never gets _old,_ ” Xaphan hissed, rounding on Crowley with the rustle of too many chitinous wings flaring on their back, segmented antennae twitching where they emerged from their wild hair like the horns Crowley had always hated on demonic depictions. Their clothing hung ill-fitting around their stick-thin body, limbs twitching like those of a dying insect not even trying to pass for human, and their eyes were overlarge and stygian black, without the dim light even casting a glimmer of a reflection in them. They were standing over a circle of dark stones, the air inside roiling with the barely suppressed, eager embers of purest hellfire. “You’re just in time. This is the last one.”

“The last one,” Crowley echoed. “Really.” His mind raced. _Hellfire in London._ Where else? How close to – ?

Satan Below, Aziraphale was coming after him to help. If he hadn’t been in the radius before, he _would_ be soon enough.

“Ah,” Xaphan chuckled to themself, picking up on Crowley’s mounting panic. “So maybe I _was_ right in my assumptions.” They padded closer, pressing into Crowley’s personal space. “I’ve been busy,” they chittered. “Are you familiar with the sigil of _Tephros,_ the Ashmaker? It spells ashes to this building, that building, every single one I’ve planted my fire in.” They gestured around, indicating the lines and circles of the sigil laid out across the London streets. “When I sear it into your beloved… Mayfair, was it? So-ho? It will spell ashes to everything afterwards, too. Whatever the humans rebuild, it’ll be _wretched,_ full of sorrow and sin on the blasted earth left behind. _Tephros_ and I will make sure of that.”

“There’s really no need. London’s bad enough between what I did to it and what the humans do every day. Stick around, you’ll see. You might like it.”

Xaphan only grinned, or at least Crowley assumed that was what they were going for. It came out more like an open-mouthed snarl. “You really did go native.”

He knew this demon, of course. Everyone did. One of the more spirited ones from back in the Rebellion – they’d wanted to set God’s Heaven afire as soon as they’d gotten wind of Lucifer’s Fall, making use of their last moments as an angel. They hadn’t succeeded, but they’d dedicated almost every moment in Hell to brewing and perfecting hellfire in the deepest depths, supplying it to the others whenever required.

“They sent you up to replace me, then?” Crowley inquired in the lightest tone he could muster. “New field agent?” The idea made his stomach turn.

“New year, new opportunities,” Xaphan relished, still with that horrible not-grin. “Downstairs might pretend your little stint never happened, but they do need eyes and a proper influence on Earth. Pleasure’s all mine. What’d you say, will this do as an opening act?”

Crowley peeled himself away from the other demon, who’d gotten ever further into his face. They reeked of brimstone, and more than a little mania. He slinked towards the inert hellfire, peered down into it. His eyes flicked back up. “What assumptions?” he asked, lifting his chin.

“Hmm?”

“You said you might be right in your assumptions.”

“Ah, yes.” Xaphan’s eyes narrowed. “How fortunate you should ask.” They followed again, coming to a halt on the other side of the stone circle. “Of course I heard all about your bath. So you’re immune to holy water, serpent. Do you still call yourself a demon at all? No matter,” they ventured on before Crowley could reply. “You no longer belong to Hell, you basically count as human at this point, yes?”

“Would that be so bad?” Crowley remarked, unthinking.

“Depends. If you do, are you still immune to hellfire?”

Xaphan snapped their fingers.

The whirling embers between them immediately roared into life. A whirling column of satanic fire rose up and ate through the ceiling, scattering a rain of plaster and rubble that never made it to the ground, devouring paintings and sculptures, and then rapidly expanding outward. Crowley had jolted, but he hadn’t backed away. As the fire washed over him and Xaphan, he bathed in it. His clothes burned and frayed, his glasses shattered just as he tore them off. His eyes were fully yellow, his fangs were out. His snake coiled around his neck, hissing and puffing itself up. His wings unfolded, a shadow against the inferno. “Yes,” Crowley spoke as calmly as he could, which wasn’t very. “Yes, I am.”

Xaphan shrieked at him, just as immersed in the fire, taking on more of their true form as well. “Immune to holy water _and_ hellfire?! How _dare_ you!” They unfolded their many wings. “Let’s discorporate you the good old way, then! Let Downstairs sort you out!” Their wings buzzed into motion and they shot forward, but Crowley was faster. He evaded them, winched in his wings, and ran, the human way.

Something thundered into life close by, and he could feel the adjacent building burst into hellfire, then another on the opposite side. _Tephros_ was forming itself. Something in him twinged as the sigil started taking hold, a sensation that would be uncomfortable to a human and outright painful to an angel. He would be praying Aziraphale was close, but not _too_ close, if he weren’t so focused on not breathing, not tripping, and trying to make sense of his infernal surroundings.

A window. An outer wall. Anything.

“Stop running and face what you’ve earned! You’ve never been a fighter! Satan’s name, you didn’t even Fall for a proper reason. You seriously want to die with your back turned to me?!”

“Wasn’t the worst, wasn’t the best either,” he called back distractedly. Some glassy piece of art exploded with the heat just as he ran past, and he could hear Xaphan cursing on his heels, their wings an invasive droning sound over the roar of the flames. He ignored it, or tried his best to. He was mapping the building.

 _There_ was the street. It’d be around here somewhere –

_Boosh._

And _there_ was the high-pressure jet of water, right on cue, smacking into him and Xaphan both just as the other demon outstretched burning claws to drag him backwards, possibly Downwards. Lidless beetle eyes bulged as they were thrown into a wall, and even through their joint struggle, Crowley had to laugh.

Lovely, brave human people! Sure, New Year’s Eve was a nice and symbolic moment to send a new demonic agent to Earth, but it was also a night of a great many fire hazards. To London’s fire brigade, prepared for people being people, Xaphan was just another hooligan, just another rogue fireworks accident to deal with. And no matter how innately terrifying hellfire had to be to the humans, they’d still _come_ when Aziraphale had called them here. They were still trying to fight it, even as _Tephros_ spread through the streets, pounding its way into their mortal hearts and minds…

An eight-foot tall painting had plummeted two stories and crashed down onto them, pinning them against the wall even as the water still blasted in. Xaphan was wildly tearing themself free, but Crowley had a better method. For once in his life he readily welcomed the black scales overtaking him, slithered through the hole his opponent had made, and hightailed away across the cracking floor.

“I wassn’t good enough to be an angel or bad enough to be a proper demon,” he shouted back between snake fangs. “I’ll never be good, and that’ss not bad,” he quoted a movie he’d rather liked, giddy with shock and adrenalin. And he realized it was true. He’d been lousy at both jobs – and he _loved_ that about himself. It might just get him out of this mess, for a start.

It’s often said the African black mamba can outspeed a galloping horse. This is a myth. Even so, Crowley, tailed by the hissing bombardier beetle behind him, managed to give a smidge of truth to it.

More jets of water burst inside, but did nothing to stop the spread of the hellfire. Of course not. Aziraphale wouldn’t make his move before _he’d_ gotten out; he was more important to the angel than all the buildings in London. There was just nothing else for it but to get away safely. Oh, how he loved him, and how he suddenly loved his speedy true form.

Xaphan finally broke through the painting, wings flung wide, clothes burning away from gleaming chitin and furiously pulsating segments, but they’d be too late. Crowley shot outside through one of the broken windows, raced across the street and between countless running feet, straight into the crowd gathered outside. Just as people started noticing him and making a nuisance of themselves by shrieking in shock and terror, he felt a pair of warm, familiar hands pick him up. He shot into a tan coat, wrapping himself tightly around a plump waist and nuzzling into a tartan-clad chest, and finally allowed himself to break out into shivers from head to tail.

Aziraphale wasted no time, but just pressed his hands together and said the words.

There was no sound, not a peep. Still, Crowley could feel it happen without lifting his head out of the coat, for fear of even the slightest particle of vapour drifting down and touching him; a great, bright holiness suffusing the world, turning all the water the firefighters were using, had already used, and had yet to use into something else entirely.

The whirling inferno rising to the sky hissed, and faltered, and started collapsing in on itself. _Tephros_ finally stopped spreading.

Crowley thought he heard an insectile shriek of rage somewhere between the dying flames, but it could’ve been his imagination.

Aziraphale lowered his hands, wrapping them around himself, keeping his coat closed as tightly as he possibly could. He took several steps back, well away from the whole mess, turning his body to shield Crowley further. “Thank Someone for your true form, you old serpent,” he muttered, voice fragile and filled with overwhelmed relief.

Crowley could only utter a shaky sound of agreement. He hadn’t stopped trembling. He kept wanting to poke his head outside to check for drifting embers, but quashed the impulse.

“I had not expected hellfire.”

“Me neither. Thought I’d have to sset fire to something myself in order to get the water going. How helpful of them.” The demon somewhat caught a hold of himself, swallowed, and spoke up. “No ssparks coming down? Not one? Move away a bit further anyway, please.”

Aziraphale quietly obliged, and Crowley relaxed a little more. He felt the angel looking up, finally away from where his hand cradled Crowley’s head under his coat. “Who was in there? Did you know them?”

“Xaphan. Bringer of the Burning Ssky.”

A sharp intake of breath. “Oh. Oh dear.” A pause. “Do you think they’re, um…?”

“Might be. Might’ve seen it coming and slipped back Down in time. No way of knowing now.” Crowley wished his eyelids weren’t translucent and fused together; he longed to _really_ close his eyes for a moment. “They might be back – or anyone else, really. But I think we’ve at least bought some time. I’ve given them ssolid proof we’re both immune to everything and cannot possibly be killed. Played it real cool.” Hah. He was even able to joke again.

“I’m so proud of you,” Aziraphale murmured with such warmth Crowley shivered with it all over again. The angel moved to get the two of them out of the crowd, but then the demon stirred, remembering something. “Wait, wait!”

“What is it, dear?”

“The sigil wasn’t complete yet. There’s still hellfire out there that wasn’t sset off. We have to go back before the humans go mucking around with it.”

Aziraphale tensed under his coils, hesitated.

“We’ll sstart at the outskirts, work our way in. The vapour will be gone by then.”

A huff, fussy as ever. “Oh, alright.” But Crowley didn’t need a great deal of imagination to picture the proud smile his angel wore now.

Crowley spent over an hour removing the rest of the inert hellfire, absorbing the hellish influences and rendering it harmless. Afterwards, he took a few of the stone piles and lit them in the mouth of an alleyway like some novel human fireworks, coaxing out flares and showers of sparks of red and purple and brilliant green, just because he could and felt like celebrating a little. After a while, Aziraphale cautiously joined in and added blue, white and gold, and the hellfire removal turned into something fun. Crowley’s spirits rose as he looked around at the secured buildings. He was safeguarding the city he’d chosen as his home, and it was only possible because of who and what he was; Fallen but with the option to do good, a Serpent swift enough to escape being dragged back to Hell, a demon who’d gotten close enough to an angel to call in holy water for help. He’d still be tempting and annoying people, cursing those who deserved it in his eyes, but his greatest joy would always be to see them overcome the nuisance and the fear and do good _anyway,_ like the firefighters had tonight. It was the only way for doing good to be meaningful.

As they returned to the bookshop, Crowley couldn’t resist popping into the Bentley parked out front and turning on the radio. “I thought you lot learned your lesson last time,” he spoke over the ensuing _Galileos._ “There’s an angel and a whole world of wonderfully inventive humans here. Earth has a pretty good defense system.” His grin stretched from ear to ear as he turned back to Aziraphale, just as excited chants of a countdown started rising from the streets. He got out of the driver’s seat, and they waited out the final ten seconds leaned against the car with their arms around eachother’s shoulders, closely pressed together, momentarily ignoring the fireworks at the stroke of midnight in favour of a deep, heartfelt kiss.

“Happy New Year, angel.” Crowley couldn’t be happier; there was a contentment in his chest that hadn’t been there before.

“Happy New Year, my dear,” Aziraphale beamed. His smile didn’t subside, but only widened. His eyes glinted so brightly Crowley briefly wavered, leaning back slightly. “What? What is it?”

“An angel and wonderfully inventive humans? Aren’t you going to take any credit yourself, Crowley?”

“Pfff. Nah, it was all them, they came to put the mess out – and _you!_ That was a massive blessing! I just – kept them talking and running after me, I –” The demon faltered, catching up to what his mouth was saying.

“Crowley…”

“…Oh, no no no.” Crowley stared at his angel, glowing in the multicoloured fireworks overhead. “How long have you been trying?”

“There really was nothing for it, dear, you were so used to being proud of the wrong things and ashamed of the right. It seems like you needed a fellow demon to help you sort that out, not an angel.” Aziraphale gathered him closer as though he was a priceless treasure, chuckling with uncontrollable catharsis and pride. “You _did_ it, my dear. You made it all the way!”

“I should be thanking Xaphan, then,” Crowley muttered, a grin breaking through despite everything as he got acquainted with the novel sensation of divine Humility. He turned back to the Bentley’s silent radio, eyes gleaming. “If you’re alive, you bastard… you’ve helped a fellow demon reach all seven virtues. Hell won’t look kindly on that, but I applaud you… most humbly,” he grinned, his face alight with glee and malice alike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1Crowley had been responsible for the traditional inclusion of Brussels sprouts in the British Christmas dinner, as well as the vegetable’s stubborn refusal to be cultivated into something even remotely more edible.[return to text]
> 
> It'll probably take me longer than the usual week to finish Wrath, as work is starting again and I'll be very busy, but I'll still be working on it!


	5. Wrath

_Wrath (noun): the act of anger turned sinful when directed against an innocent, when it is unduly strong, or when it desires excessive punishment or misfortune._

New Year’s Day had come and gone, and said new year was in full swing now.

Almost three months had passed since Crowley had reached all seven divine virtues, and at no point had Hell made a move to punish him for it; there’d been no more demonic activity or unexpected visits from Below. Crowley had been quite certain that Xaphan’s endeavour had been such an unbelievable fiasco that the Lords of Hell would think thrice before they tried anything new, if they’d ever touch Earth again at all before the Big One. The demon had been almost uncharacteristically gleeful for weeks, a spring in his step and a grin on his face, dragging Aziraphale with him in his cheer, and the angel couldn’t be happier to see how virtue had helped him overcome some long-standing issues, changing the way he saw the world and himself. It’d been everything he’d ever hoped for.

He couldn’t be happier… other than one little thing. He still had one sin left to go himself, and he was rather apprehensive about this one. Worse than that, he knew Crowley was too.

Aziraphale knew his demon had been pushing him, experimenting with Wrath as though he and it were dangerous chemicals and the demon was trying to tease out an explosive reaction. He’d been causing the wrong meals to be delivered to their restaurant tables. He’d been swapping valuable books around in the shop, resulting in frantic, ranting searches. He’d been remembering things wrong on purpose, causing and sustaining endless debates between the two of them where normally they’d have long since agreed to disagree. But the demon had never quite seen things through; he’d always given in at the last moment, setting things straight, making it up to the angel before Aziraphale could actually get angry.

The demon had confessed he just couldn’t annoy him the way he would a human. He didn’t actually want to see Aziraphale angry at all, much less angry at _him,_ and certainly not on purpose. It ended in mild annoyance and exasperated endearment every time, which in turn caused Crowley to get angrier at himself than Aziraphale could ever be – and the angel couldn’t even soothe him by telling him this, as it made the whole thing even more impossible.

There was also the fact that Aziraphale himself didn’t actually want to commit Wrath.

Of course, he’d gotten angry at times throughout his long life. He’d gotten angry at customers that couldn’t take a hint, at Crowley for a variety of reasons big and small, at little slights that rubbed him wrong, at the horrific things humanity had inflicted on itself and the world. Wars and inquisitions had had him pacing and ranting, furiously baffled at God and free will alike. The trials, imprisonment and death of Oscar Wilde, perhaps the dearest human friend he’d ever had and an absolute gem of a person, had had him so utterly livid it’d seemed like white fire had pulsed through his chest along with his grief, cursing and crying, wishing Crowley wasn’t taking a century-long nap so he didn’t have to be alone. But he hadn’t been committing Wrath in any of these situations; it’d been righteous anger, for justified reasons, and therefore not sinful.

He’d never wished to harm an innocent. He’d never gone out of his way to directly smite the wicked. He’d never even thought of killing before circumstances had forced him.

The sin of Wrath spelled a loss of control that scared Aziraphale to even think about. Crowley was playing the game all wrong if he thought he could goad him into directing it at the one he loved most. And so three months had passed, winter had turned to tentative spring, and all had been lovely aside from a constant, nagging nervousness at the back of the angel’s mind.

It happened in St. James’s Park.

“The nerve of it,” Crowley was saying, his voice laced with disgust as he flung food pellets at the ducks[1]. “Flowering without my leave, and at regular size, too.”

“I think it’s very charming,” Aziraphale replied. “And it’s just the one flower. It’s a small act of defiance, you of all people ought to appreciate it.”

“It’s supposed to be a _bonsai_ apple tree,” the demon hissed. “I’ve failed as a parent.”

“There, there,” the angel patted his shoulder with an amused smile. He thought it best not to mention he’d been secretly encouraging the little bonsai and might be partially responsible for the one, comically oversized white flower adorning the artfully gnarled branches and miniature leaves now. Crowley hadn’t failed as a parent. Aziraphale had simply succeeded.

The park was lovely this time of year, alive with colour and balmy spring air. A rainbow abundance of tulip, violet and daffodil varieties was coming into bloom alongside the path fringing the lake, and every tree wore a gauzy cloak of delicate, almost neon green leaves as tiny as those of Crowley’s bonsai. It was almost like a quiet, immeasurably slowed-down firework, celebrating only itself. The angel said so, and Crowley turned to him with a faint half-smile. “That from one of your poetry collections?”

“Just popped into my head,” the angel beamed, eyes on the beauty all around them.

And he froze, all joy draining from his smile.

Crowley rounded on him with raised eyebrows. “What is it?” He followed the angel’s gaze. “…Oh. _Bollocks._ ”

At the bend of the path, underneath a magnificent cherry tree draped in delicate pink blossoms, stood a handsome young man in a well-tailored, powder blue suit, a perfect image of subtle pastels all but shining in the sunlight. Perfect curls graced his head like a crown, or a halo. He was looking around with a faint, bemused smile, taking in his surroundings like he was questioning the sensibilities of every single detail.

Aziraphale drifted forward before either he or Crowley knew what he was doing, strangely lightheaded. The demon strode after him at once, but Aziraphale held him back, in a way that didn’t allow for argument. “Good afternoon,” he heard himself say.

The youth turned to him, eyebrows shooting up in recognition and surprise. “Ah – Aziraphale –” His eyes flicked up and down the angel’s form, apprehension and slight nervousness colouring his voice. Aziraphale was all the way back in Heaven in an instant, self-conscious at a vast multitude of concerns, not in the least the fact that whereas this angel seemed to know him, he had no idea who the other was. He struggled to find his voice. “What brings you here, um – ?”

“The Principality Nithael, pleased to meet you,” the young man spoke at once, stepping forward to shake Aziraphale’s hand. The angel’s fingers twitched in the grip of his – former? – colleague. “I take it you’re Heaven’s new field agent, then?” he spoke, mustering up every ounce of pleasantness he still had in him. There was no sense in being impolite. There was no unmarked van, holy water or so much as a flaming butter knife in sight, and Crowley was safely behind him, though also on high alert. “Head office is following Hell’s example?”

“We heard about what happened to the demon Xaphan.” The other angel’s eyes briefly flicked to Crowley. “We do not intend to follow Hell’s example. I am not here to harm you, or take you back Upstairs.” Nithael actually smiled here, a bright and disarming thing, his head slightly cocked. “I was simply sent to fulfil the task you strayed from.”

“The task I –”

“Principalities are meant to guide, protect and inspire the nations of Earth to do Good,” Nithael explained, nothing but patience and gentle pride in his voice. “Other angels will be going in and out, of course, as we always have, but I’ll be here to stay. To get the hang of this city, and then perhaps travel the world as you did.” He folded his hands behind his back. “Upstairs only recently found out you got… distracted, a few centuries ago. But that doesn’t matter now. We’ll leave you be.”

Aziraphale’s heart was pounding, but he managed to put on a shaky smile. “That’s good to hear.” As he saw how hesitantly Nithael mirrored the smile, he suddenly recalled the last Heaven had seen of him, or at least what they’d _thought_ had been him; the angel immune to hellfire, viciously spitting it at the Archangels. Of course this new Principality was apprehensive. Aziraphale hesitated himself; should he keep up the act? He didn’t think he could, not the way Crowley had portrayed him – a wonderful performance, but very hard to follow, even though he had been bold in Crowley’s skin. Back in his own, he was soft, as celestial beings went. And Nithael was just one angel, and he wasn’t doing anything wrong.

“I run a flower shop in Mayfair,” the other Principality then spoke, breaking the tense silence between them. Aziraphale heard Crowley growl out a quiet ‘oh goodie’ behind him, and had to stifle an involuntary smile. “We could… keep in contact, perhaps.”

“We could,” Aziraphale said, surprising both himself and the demon behind him. “I, um. I run a bookshop on Old Compton Street. Feel free to stop by.”

They formally exchanged addresses and each went their own way. As soon as they were out of earshot, Crowley turned to him. “Really?” he hissed, visibly seething. “We’re going to keep in _contact_ with Baby Blue back there?”

“I don’t see the harm.”

“Aziraphale.” Crowley’s tone almost stopped the angel in his tracks. “I saw what that did to you. It’s not a good reminder. Seeing Xaphan wasn’t for me, either.”

Aziraphale’s eyes flashed. “Crowley, Xaphan tried to drag you back to _Hell._ Nithael isn’t doing anything of the sort, or anything wrong at all, for that matter. I couldn’t possibly, in good conscience –”

“Don’t you ever tire of being nice?”

The angel faltered.

“Don’t you get furious at their pristine faces, their perfect smiles? Don’t you want to pull his feathers out one by one?”

“I don’t, actually.” Aziraphale turned to his demon, the uptick of his mouth betraying very slight amusement. “And I know what you’re trying to do.”

The demon groaned, turning away in defeat. “How do you always see me coming while you managed to sneak my virtues in twice? It’s not fair.”

“I had help. Xaphan was a blessing in disguise.”

Crowley barked out a laugh, then inclined his head in concession. “And Nithael will not be a damnation in disguise. Alright then. But you’re giving me a real workout, angel.”

“No rest for the wicked,” Aziraphale smiled serenely. “Hmm. You know, maybe we could… I don’t know, educate the lad a bit whenever he stops by. I’ve been where he is. Earth is a doozy to figure out, especially starting out in London of all places.”

Crowley gave him a sideways look of fond exasperation. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Oh, I love you too.”

A few days later, Nithael began stopping by the bookshop. Just not physically.

Aziraphale first noticed it as he was coming back from a visit to a charming new Italian place nearby. Something had changed in the Soho streets he’d privately come to think of as at least a little bit _his._

A handful of times, he was passed by someone wearing flowers on their lapel, or in their hair, or twirling one between their fingers. Everyone seemed slightly better dressed and more cheerful than normal, certainly moreso than was to be expected on a grey Tuesday afternoon like this one. Cheerful in a way that somehow unsettled him, but seemed infectious to the other humans making their way. He was greeted by hazy smiles and hazy chatter – _do watch where you’re going, good chap – quite alright, quite alright_ – and found his jaw set uncharacteristically tightly in reaction.

He knew an excess of blessings and divine bliss when he saw it. He suddenly understood why Crowley always made faces when he did this.

He’d almost made it home. He had been meaning to settle in for the afternoon, brew himself a nice cocoa and finally get around to properly looking at the books Adam had added to the shop – he wanted to have read everything in his possession, if only to see if he could bring himself to use them as a secret weapon to get rid of a few customers more easily – but this forced him into a change of plans. Clearly, he ought to head over to Mayfair, though regrettably not to meet with his favourite demon.

On his way to Tottenham Court station, he overheard two students who’d miraculously gotten into art school, and on the subway he sat next to a man on the phone exclaiming he’d gotten his dream part in a play despite having been under the weather at his audition. On his way out from Bond Street, he encountered a pastor preaching a sermon of love and hope on a street corner, far from any church.

“This is not how it works, dear lad,” Aziraphale muttered to himself, but he could feel a little hypocritical shiver run up his back.

The flower shop was impossible to miss. Even without it positively dripping with perfect blossoms that he knew would last far longer than was natural, the divine aura of Nithael’s residence was outright visible as a slight golden haze, almost audible as harp notes and the hum of celestial harmonies. Aziraphale hated to think what it might feel like to Crowley.

He stepped inside through a welcoming open door framed by garlands of fuchsia and ivy, made his way past a few browsing customers, and was recognized by the angel at the register. Nithael nodded in acknowledgement, and finished the bouquet he’d been working on. “Gloxinia for love at first sight,” he told the young man before him, “primroses for ‘I can’t live without you’, and white violets to tell her ‘let’s take a chance on happiness’.”

“That sounds perfect,” the youth beamed. “Thank you so much.”

“It’ll work, I promise,” Nithael smiled, a bit too meaningfully.

Aziraphale stepped forward. “Nithael – a moment of your time, if you please?” His voice intoned this would, in fact, take more than merely a moment.

The other Principality turned his smile to him. “Of course.” He lifted his head. “The shop is closed, good people.”

To Aziraphale’s astonishment and slight horror, the handful of customers immediately took their leave, putting back their prospective purchases, politely wishing Nithael good day and not even questioning why Aziraphale could remain. Nithael snapped his fingers as the last of them closed the door, and the ‘closed’ sign obediently flipped itself around.

Aziraphale stared at it, then at the other angel. “My dear boy, you cannot just _do_ that – puppeteer them into complacency like that.”

“Why not? They seem happy enough.” Nithael miracled up what smelled like a cup of fresh chamomile tea. “You’re fond of worldly sustenance, yes? So glad you could make it.”

Aziraphale wrapped his hands around the cup, more out of habit and politeness than anything. He realized he was still staring. “Yes, they seem happy – but they wouldn’t be otherwise. I can feel your influence through the whole city, you’re fulfilling wishes and lifting spirits everywhere. How do you have clearance for all that?”

Nithael comfortably leaned on the counter. “There is a bit of slack to pick up from where you left off when the demon Crowley corrupted you. And then there’s the evil of the M25 motorway to account for –”

“Oh, don’t you give me that,” Aziraphale fussed. “Have you ever heard of free will?”

The other Principality looked puzzled. “Would this not be what they’d choose with their free will? I’m giving them what they want, providing the energy and spirit to face each day at their best. That’s not a bad thing, is it?”

“They cannot do their best every day. That’ll lead them into early graves, dear boy. People need their off days. It’s for _them_ to decide the best way forward.” He’d told the Archangels, he’d say it again, as often as he needed to, albeit in a gentle voice where it concerned an angel new to Earth.

“Early graves,” Nithael mused. “Yes, you might have a point there. Their lives are so short already.”

“Exactly,” Aziraphale nodded, relieved. “And another thing, if I might be so bold. I’ve noticed you’ve been projecting your sense of style onto them. I really must advise against that. You can’t just… insert yourself like that.” As much as he’d like to bring last century’s fashion into vogue again…

The other angel briefly looked his own sharp attire up and down. “But this is Heavenly.”

“Yes, but not necessarily _good,_ you see.” Aziraphale quirked a smile seeing the metaphorical question mark over Nithael’s head, so strong it was almost manifested into reality. “Oh, nevermind.”

“So this is what they meant by ‘going native’,” Nithael remarked, wearing a puzzled smile as his eyes drifted over Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Oh, do come in, madam, we’re open!” He snapped his fingers as Aziraphale turned around, and the door sign twirled back around. A young woman stepped in, looking pale and run-down. “What can I do for you?”

The woman approached the counter, fiddling with her hands. “I’d… I’d like a personal bouquet, please. They say you specialize in the language of flowers? An apology couldn’t hurt…”

Nithael looked her in the eyes, and something changed in the air. After a moment of stillness, she perked up. “…Or perhaps I’ll just take one for myself.” She looked around. “Those orchids look lovely.”

“Orchids it is,” Nithael smiled, wrapping up the purchase. As the woman left, Aziraphale was left staring in horror. “What did you _do?”_

“That situation wasn’t worth saving. Her girlfriend had broken up with her already. I just took away her worries, she’s happy now.”

“What did I just _say_ – ?” Aziraphale brought a hand to his head. “They need to make their own decisions! They need the good with the bad for either to mean anything!”

“I’m so sorry, but take my orders only from Upstairs,” Nithael spoke with a slight frown. “I’ll give it a thought, however. Good day, Aziraphale.”

The angel huffed, turned and left the shop with all the tranquility and grace of a frenzied tan whirlwind. On his way down the street, he spotted the woman with the orchid and quietly snapped his fingers. _Be honest. Be patient. Have heart._ He watched intently as something changed in her eyes, and a single tear fell onto the orchid’s leaves.

He felt just as horrible about it as he did about Nithael’s actions.

Back in the bookshop, he did what he did best where it came to comforting himself; hole up with a beverage and a book. He really only realized he’d been reading up on the language of flowers once he’d gotten through all the popularized 19th-century symbolism and read back as far as the Ottoman, and then the Byzantine Empire. Only then did he realize it’d gotten dark outside, and his phone was ringing.

“…Hello?”

“Aziraphale? Where are you?”

 _Crowley._ They’d planned a date at the Ritz – the outer gardens had opened again, and would be positively enchanting this time of year. He could slap himself.

There was worry in his demon’s voice, and more spoke from his words. Crowley was so out of it he’d asked where he was – him, with the outdated fixed telephone. Aziraphale thought back to the last time Crowley hadn’t been able to find him, and decided at once he could not abide that worry. “I’m – I’m quite alright, don’t you fret, dear. I’m still at home.”

“…What?”

He glanced around, back at his book. Reading had not made him feel better. Quite the contrary, in fact. He felt miserable. He wasn’t in a proper mood for this date at all. In fact, he didn’t feel like leaving the shop for a good while.

“Angel.” The gentleness in Crowley’s voice returned him to the present at once. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yes, I’m – I am. I just don’t think tonight would be such a good idea. If that’s alright with you.”

A brief pause. “…Sure. Okay, no problem. I’ll just… stop by the shop, then?”

It was still a question, hoping for a ‘yes’ but never presuming one. Crowley was always so very careful. It was more than a force of habit cultivated over thousands of years of alignment-related hazards; it was and had always been a conscious effort that spoke of how much he respected and cherished his angel, and all of a sudden Aziraphale felt like he might cry.

He didn’t feel like he could deal with feeling cherished, tonight.

“I’m sorry,” he managed. “I think we’d better not. I’ll see you again at our Thursday haunt, alright?”

“The new place? Was it up to snuff?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, thinking back to the Italian place he’d went to check out, early that afternoon when his mood had seemed indestructible. “It was.”

“Right.”

“Right.” And after a moment of sitting frozen, thinking of a thousand things he might say, Aziraphale decided to say none of them, forced out a hurried “See you then,” and hung up.

He pressed his knuckles to his forehead, a long breath escaping him as his thoughts slowly but relentlessly slid back to what had transpired in the flower shop.

_But this is Heavenly._

_Yes, but not necessarily_ good, _you see._

_I take my orders only from Upstairs._

Something decidedly uncomfortable settled in his stomach, smirked contentedly and poured itself a glass. Not all of it had been invited by Nithael. Some of it had been there for an awfully long time already, though carefully and wilfully ignored.

Despite his own better judgement, Aziraphale forcefully rolled up the echoes of the afternoon, his thoughts and all their implications, stuffed them away and curled up on the sofa. Sleeping seemed like a better option than staying awake with all that on his mind, even though he’d be sleeping alone for the first time in his life.

He was woken by the tingle of the shop’s doorbell, and he scrambled up before his thoughts had caught up with him. He was wearing a wide smile before he knew it; after all, who else would come visit him in the shop first thing in the morning? “Crow-”

And then he remembered what he’d made clear yesterday, just as he saw the trio of customers entering the shop, and his face fell. “Ah,” he forced out. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Mr. Fell,” one of them, a bearded man in a rather fetching hat, smiled. “We’ve heard so much about your shop. We’ve finally decided to stop by. I was wondering if we might have a look at your collection of antique Bibles?”

Aziraphale’s eyes grew steely.

He wasn’t proud of what he’d had to do to get them out, but they were gone eventually, all the same.

_It’s the phrasing, you see. The older versions seem more… pure, closer to the truth that was once intended for how life should best be lived._

Such conviction, such strong intent. It’d gotten them into the painstakingly crafted inhospitality of his shop, at _this_ hour. This went way too far.

There really was only one thing for it, and his own conviction only grew as he saw what awaited him in the streets.

When he got to the flower shop, Nithael was beaming. “Aziraphale!” He closed the shop with a glance; it’d been blissfully empty of customers. “Come in, come in. I’ve been in contact with Upstairs, and we’ve found a solution to your little conundrum.”

“Have you.” Anyone unfamiliar with Aziraphale would’ve mistaken his tone for polite interest. Anyone _familiar_ with Aziraphale would’ve run and hidden.

“Your talk of early graves. You were right, human lives are very short. But they’re short _at best,_ you see. So I’ve been spreading… well, reassurance.” The worst thing was how happy Nithael looked; not even proud, just glad to have provided a solution to a long-standing problem. “I’ve been taking away that constant fear of getting older and of death they all have, and nudging them to make the most of life. Why should they fear the inevitable?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth, but couldn’t find the words. It’d been a horror outside; he wouldn’t be forgetting those _smiles_ for a while, if one could call them that.

“See, all lives end the same way. It doesn’t matter how long they live, only _how_ they live, so they end up with _us._ ”

The angel physically reeled himself in. “But – my dear boy – you can’t go around living their lives _for_ them!”

Nithael spread his hands. “I’m just doing what Heaven commands; safeguarding souls before the next War. My hands are tied, I’m afraid.”

Aziraphale stared at him, his heart going a mile a minute. Then he turned on his heel and left, quietly closing the door behind him, but leaving every plant in the shop trembling long afterwards.

A few days later, the angel had gotten to the point of lingering around the flower shop whenever he could make up an excuse. He told himself it helped him think, perhaps to get to a reasonable solution, or in any case somewhat make up for Nithael’s influence – and really, what could it hurt to get a little more familiar with Mayfair?

It was on one of these occasions that he came upon the worst turn of events imaginable.

Just as he arrived at Nithael’s shop, a certain demon left it.

Crowley was sweating, visibly uncomfortable, breath coming in laboured little puffs. He all but danced away from the door and the divine aura extending beyond it, feet tapping backwards, putting as much hurried distance between himself and the entry as possible – and then coming face to face with Aziraphale as he turned around. His eyes widened behind his glasses. “Angel, hi!”

“What the devil are _you_ doing here?!”

Crowley moved to the street corner and leaned against the wall, breath slowly evening out. “What’s it look like? Been using my wiles.”

Aziraphale sharply looked back at the flower shop. “On – on him?”

“Of course on him, who else?” The demon sighed. “As if I wouldn’t notice what he does to you, you haven’t been yourself. So I thought, hey, maybe I can take him out to eat, or shop, inspire a little Gluttony or Greed, you know, maybe even some Envy or Pride, you know how those pompous feather dusters Up There get towards humanity. What if I could corrupt him with worldliness in the eyes of Heaven? They might take him back!”

“Is this why I couldn’t reach you lately? You weren’t picking up your phone.”

“Mm, might be. The kid’s a real timesink. Engages in all my debates, you know, to plant doubt. I’m not getting anywhere with him, though.” Crowley stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Very loyal. Just a mouthpiece for Heaven, really.”

“Yes, I’ve… I’ve noticed.” Aziraphale scarcely heard himself utter the words. Something akin to polar cold seemed to have overtaken his mind, blanking it out and sending shivers down his spine. He felt the overwhelming urge to _run,_ even fly, to get away any way he could. “I’ll leave you to it, then,” he managed, stepping away. “You’ll get home alright? It’s only a few blocks away –”

“Angel –”

“Really must be off,” he called over his shoulder, picking up the pace, coat swishing. He tightly closed his eyes as the masses swallowed him up.

Alone again, and Aziraphale stewed in a discomfort he couldn’t alleviate. He closed and locked the bookshop and stewed, vigorously, until evening fell.

The problem – the problem _was,_ Nithael wasn’t actually doing anything _wrong._ The new Principality simply didn’t know any better; he’d only been to Earth a handful of times at best, Aziraphale could tell, and he genuinely thought he was doing what was right. It wouldn’t occur to him to even tentatively question Heaven’s methods or consider the merest alternative; the orders of the Host were all he had, he couldn’t possibly consider the opinions of the renegade angel who’d stepped into hellfire and lived, who’d turned his back on everything holy and Right. No one in Heaven would. Aziraphale himself wouldn’t have, in Nithael’s position.

And oh, had he been in Nithael’s position.

Blind faith, a blind eye turned to the truth, and all those silly mortals and their silly lives to toy with in the name of Good. Raise them the way you see fit. Get them interested in the right things just to keep them on a predetermined track. Spread peace and goodness just to keep up a quota, not because you _care._

_Just a mouthpiece for Heaven, really._

What he felt now had a name, but he hadn’t been ready to acknowledge it for the past few centuries, and he wasn’t ready now. He’d never been fast, never been good at leaving the status quo. It was so much easier to keep turning over his thoughts and feelings about Nithael in his head, because it’d all started with him, hadn’t it? Wasn’t all this really his fault?

No. No, it wasn’t.

Oh, anything to get away from this particular train of thought.

Aziraphale found himself coursing for his phone like a ship towards its predestined iceberg.

It took Crowley a while to pick up. Aziraphale closed his eyes in relief when he did. “Crowley –”

“Angel, now really isn’t the best time.”

Aziraphale tensed up; the demon sounded agitated, almost hunted, speaking in hushed tones. “Crowley, where are you?”

“Rather not say.”

_“Where are you.”_

“Oh, alright, just don’t – don’t smite me –” A long sigh. “I’m at the Ritz, alright –”

_At the –_

Aziraphale must’ve been stunned into a longer silence than he thought, as Crowley took it as an invitation to keep talking. “He took a small interest in food, and I thought, this place has the best food I know of, or at least that you know of, it’s our favourite haunt after all and you know your stuff. Think of it like my secret weapon, yeah? I really think I’m getting somewhere this time.” A small pause, as if to invite Aziraphale to say something, but the angel was still in no condition to. “He’s put the entire bloody garden in bloom. He’s absolutely disgusting, angel, you know how they get when they latch on to a single interest, it’s flowers this, flowers that. It’s a small miracle he didn’t bring a bouquet. There’s just this single flower on his lapel.”

This, of all things, had him regain his voice. “What kind.”

“Uh. Little white thing. Hyacinth, I think?”

Aziraphale’s eyes shot to the book on flower language, still on his reading desk. He knew this one. White hyacinth – ’I’ll pray for you’.

Every light on Old Compton Street shattered at once, and the line died.

_“Angel? Angel! An-”_

The flower shop was still dark when Nithael returned to it after a dinner cut rather short. Crowley, who’d anxiously tagged along, wasn’t at all certain this was a good sign. This situation was rather new and unconventional, but he could _guess,_ and he was seldom wrong where it came to this particular man-shaped being.

Inside, the plants were shivering. Nithael slightly unfurled his divine aura in reaction, his halo shimmering to life around his perfect hair.

Another halo all but _flared_ in reply.

Aziraphale was a shadow within a deeper darkness, leaned against the counter at the end of the shop. The light crowning his head did nothing to dispel the gloom.

“Aziraphale,” Nithael greeted curtly, lifting his chin with scarcely a tremble to his voice. Crowley snapped around from where he’d been staring at his angel, all but gaping. _How aren’t you terrified right now? Don’t you_ feel _that?_ He backed away, divine energy prickling across his skin like pins and needles, but very unwilling to leave.

“Let me tell you something, Nithael, Principality of Rejuvenation,” came the angel’s voice, soft and low. “I’ve grown quite tired of you.” Nithael made to lift a hand, open his mouth, but Aziraphale snapped his fingers and shattered a light overhead, showering down glass, making the other angel and the demon jump. “‘You’ plural, you lot Up There, the entire Host and their black-and-white, Heaven-and-Hell way of thinking.” He snapped again, and the white hyacinth on Nithael’s lapel wilted into nothing. “So you were praying for a demon? How kind. Were you hoping to redeem him, perhaps?” Aziraphale’s halo spiked, and as something rustled on his back Crowley was astonished to catch a glimpse of still-white feathers. “You wouldn’t be worthy to share the air he breathes even if you _needed to breathe,_ ” the angel hissed then.

“Aziraphale,” the demon began, very carefully. Aziraphale didn’t even look his way. His eyes, glinting in the dark, remained fixed on Nithael, searing him to the ground.

“You shouldn’t be praying for a demon if you weren’t also praying for yourself, you utter _hypocrite.”_ The word came out like the most horrible of curses, which wasn’t very far from the truth – the second-deepest circle of Hell was reserved for hypocrites and corrupt politicians, which incidentally also reminded Crowley of Heaven. He held his tongue. Nithael wisely did the same, backing away as Aziraphale took a step forward.

“Heaven has just as much blood on its hands as Hell, precisely because of its desire for purity that starts in flower shops like this one. You’re not the nice ones. You’re not better.” Aziraphale’s hands were tightly clenched together at his stomach. “When will you finally see that?” In the light of two halos, Crowley caught a glimpse of Aziraphale’s face, the glint of his eyes, the hint of something that didn’t match the icy rage in his voice.

“You truly believe going to Heaven is best for humanity? For my money, it’s not actually any better than Hell. The _now_ is all they have. Earth was their paradise once, and it’s still the closest to God’s Eden. I _cannot_ believe after all these centuries you still don’t see it!” Aziraphale’s voice had risen from a quiet hiss to a furious exclamation unlike anything Crowley had ever heard from him. This was somehow worse than the hellfire-breathing renegade angel he’d painted for Heaven. Aziraphale’s aura would’ve blinded any self-respecting witch. A whirlwind of divine fire picked up around him, tearing at their clothes and shrivelling leaves to blackness, clawing at Crowley’s demonic essence until he was forced to stagger back almost to the rattling door, shielding his eyes.

Nithael lifted trembling hands, pressing them together as if to pray for aid, but with a single step Aziraphale was on him to yank them down. “Don’t you _dare,_ ” he all but snarled, spreading his wings from wall to wall, and Crowley was pretty sure he’d never remember how to blink again.

“You’re not the nice ones, and you’re _not going to win.”_

The demon froze.

_I’m the nice one._

_We will win, of course._

“You’re so assured of victory, but what would winning even mean? Even if one side wins, even if Heaven wins, where would you be? Alone, without all those who Fell! How can you even bear the thought? It’d be empty, meaningless! Like life without… like life _before –”_ Aziraphale’s voice hitched then, and Crowley broke out of his baffled stupor at once. He knew what this was about now. Aziraphale wasn’t actually raging at Nithael – this was so much worse. He forced himself into motion, stepping closer, squinting as his skin burned in the ethereal glare of his angel’s fury –

– and there was a hand on his arm, and a body stepping in front of his own, shielding him from the light. A Principality spread his wings, bearing a crown and clutching a sceptre in trembling hands.

At once, Aziraphale _burned._ His wings rose, and in the flickering light dancing around the shop it appeared as though the shadow of two _other_ wings came into being, painted on the back wall like a horrifying reminder of what had once been. Something fiery started to appear in his hand, tongues of flame dancing up and down its length, and even Crowley might’ve believed it was hellfire at this point.

Aziraphale still looked like himself. His eyes didn’t glow, his voice didn’t boom. And that was perhaps the most terrifying thing of all.

_“Get out.”_

No one stopped Nithael as he dropped the sceptre and brought his hands together in prayer this time. A cascade of pure white light, a very rapid ascension, and it was over.

Crowley wordlessly took off his sunglasses and turned wide eyes to Aziraphale. They looked at each other for one breathless moment. Then the angel strode past him, slamming the door as he stepped outside, and all the demon was left with as soon as his brain caught up to his body was a sidewalk full of sleeping passers-by and a few white feathers drifting down.

It took almost the entire remainder of the night, but the demon eventually did manage to track the angel down. He hadn’t gone far. He was sitting, prim and proper as ever, not a trace of wings or a flaming sword or even a hair out of place, on a park bench under the trees of Berkeley Square.

Crowley’s shoulders sagged with relief upon seeing him, though he still approached with the utmost care. When he sat down, he left a respectful distance between them. Aziraphale didn’t turn to look at him, but the demon recognized the well of tears when he saw it, no matter how subtle.

What did he even say here? _Well, mark me down as scared and horny?_

 _No,_ he chastised himself. _Time and place, Crowley, time and place._ He knew what’d happened back there; he was intimately familiar with it, after all. Or he had been, before someone had set out to help him with it. He turned to the angel. “It’s good, you know, you saying all that.” He hesitated. “Even if it wasn’t in a way you’d normally do it.”

“It was wrong,” Aziraphale muttered, his gaze lowering.

“Well, it worked. He’s gone. You did what I couldn’t.” Crowley gave the slightest smile, an invitation, a halfway-to-desperate plea. _It’s alright. Please come back._

“It was _wrong!_ I should’ve been patient, gotten him to _see._ That wasn’t righteous anger, it was…” Aziraphale gestured wildly, searching for words that just so happened to effortlessly pop up in Crowley’s mind. _Ugly. Personal. Wounded._ “Necessary,” he said.

“It was undeserved.”

“Not in my eyes.” He stilled one of the angel’s flailing hands with his own, gently lowered it. “Not in the eyes of a demon.”

Aziraphale finally turned to look at him, nothing short of anguish in his eyes. “He tried to protect you. From me.”

Crowley shrugged. “Maybe my wiles did work on him, a little bit. Or maybe he saw my redemption as a worthy challenge. Who can say.”

“Or he learned more in a week than I did in six thousand years.” The angel buried his face in his free hand – Crowley stubbornly refused to relinquish the other. “I saw myself in him, the worst parts of me, but even that much was wrong.”

“If it’s any consolation, I never drew any comparisons. You were never _that_ bad.” Crowley smiled as Aziraphale quietly leaned into him, even if he didn’t look up. “Angel… do you really see angels and demons as equal?” He had to ask. Even if it was Aziraphale… _I’m the nice one_ had cut him, still. “Equally bad, or good, or… whatever?”

“I didn’t always,” Aziraphale muttered. “To my shame. But there really is no difference. We’ve done eachother’s jobs for centuries, for Someone’s sake. We can both bless, and tempt, and repair things and possess people. Really only your time-stopping trick comes to mind…”

“But you _were_ afraid to Fall,” Crowley gently reminded him.

Aziraphale looked up, something fierce in his eyes. “Yes, but not because that would make me a demon. Only because of what it’d mean for _us._ We’re safe now because we are an impossibility, after all. If I were no longer the angel breathing hellfire…”

Crowley smiled, impossibly fond. “Well, you can rest easy now. You didn’t Fall.”

The angel faltered, eyes widening. He looked away, ahead between the trees. “…Did I do it, then?” His voice was so small. “Commit Wrath?”

“Yeah, and not a little bit either. That much self-loathing directed at a mostly undeserving target, it, erm…”

“Oh, just say it, Crowley.”

“It was a thing of demonic beauty, angel. Apart from the self-loathing, we really need to work on that. But it’s good you let it out.”

The angel shot him a Look, but after the display in the flower shop the demon found he wasn’t as easily intimidated now. “You forgive others far more easily than you do yourself,” he observed. “Of course the only Wrath you were going to commit would be aimed at yourself. And here I thought it’d be impossible altogether. I did try my best, you know.”

“I wasn’t going to direct it at _you,”_ Aziraphale groused. “Heavens, but still. I don’t feel like I deserve help at all, not after that.”

“You were there for me through it all,” Crowley reminded him. “The least I can do is return the favour.” He smiled, remembering. “If only you could see yourself through my eyes.”

“Wouldn’t that be something.” The angel sighed. “…I do feel lighter, somehow.” He didn’t feel like he deserved that relief. The demon briefly squeezed his hand, and it felt like _I forgive you._ It felt like _there’s nothing to forgive._

He looked up. The slightest hint of rosy dawn crept up into the sky. Morning dew sparkled in the grass around the bench. The streets were so quiet, he could almost believe Crowley had stopped time and they resided in a bubble all their own, safe, sheltered.

Maybe they did. What was the Earth, if not that bubble? What was the knowledge he’d committed all the cardinal sins he was capable of, and hadn’t Fallen? What were they, if not a quiet firework celebrating only themselves?

He tipped back his head and looked up at the lightening sky beyond the springtime branches. Maybe there was hope for Heaven. Nithael might not return, but maybe, just maybe, he’d learned something from his experiences.

He really did feel lighter.

Crowley rose from the bench, ever occupied with the next moment, though not as obsessively as he’d once been. “Let me tempt you to some breakfast, angel. We have something to celebrate, or… at least allow me the chance to return a smile to your face.”

Aziraphale rose to meet him, granting him that smile ahead of time. They drew eachother close, foreheads resting together, just breathing eachother in for a moment. “I’ll let you tempt me, in a bit,” the angel spoke softly. “There’s just one thing I want to do first.”

Aziraphale finished the bouquet at sunrise, carefully setting it in the middle of the counter.

He’s been careful in his choices, meticulous. Geraniums for folly. Purple hyacinths for sorrow. Warmly coloured zinnias for the memory of an absent friend. It might be going a little far, and Crowley had all but gagged when he’d explained this particular meaning, but he wanted to be clear.

Nithael had wanted to learn, in his own limited way. He’d shared his address and listened to Aziraphale on his visits. He’d indulged Crowley’s temptations, choosing to spend time with a demon, eventually even defending him. Aziraphale had committed his sin; there was nothing stopping him from trying to make amends.

“This is why you’ll always be an angel,” Crowley smiled wearily. “Don’t you ever worry again.”

“I won’t,” Aziraphale promised, and kissed him, and found he meant it. He couldn’t help but kiss the demon again. “Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, everything I am, thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Crowley said habitually. Aziraphale smiled, framing his face. “Oh, but I will. If I don’t have to fear a Fall, you don’t have to fear Hell’s punishment. You helped an angel, and you’re going to be as proud of it as you want.”

“Sinfully so? Or should I choose to be Humble?”

“Whatever you want,” Aziraphale grinned. “Whatever _we_ want.” Crowley’s little sound of agreement felt wonderful against his lips, and he couldn’t help but hum back, joy stealing into his heart as though it’d never left.

A bright sound from the counter interrupted them. They both turned to look.

Aziraphale’s bouquet was gone. Another stood in its place.

The angel moved closer to inspect it. It spoke to him, loud and clear.

Delicate pink azaleas; ‘take care of yourself for me’. Purple cyclamen, petals like little wings, for resignation and goodbye. Ephemeral white sweet pea; ‘thank you for a lovely time’. Aziraphale translated the symbolism with quiet delight and just a touch of sadness.

“Absolutely disgusting,” Crowley uttered. “Hell’s sakes. ‘Thank you for a lovely time’ – that’s me, that is. Well, at least _he_ enjoyed himself. I did take him to the Ritz gardens.”

“My, my,” the angel replied with a slight smile, still gazing down at the flowers. “I might get jealous. You do still owe me that one.”

“Tonight,” the demon promised at once. “If you’ll have me.”

“Oh, my dear, always.” Aziraphale smiled up at him, and Crowley was instantly lost in the love in his eyes. “Now and always.”

Afterwards, after a night suspended between garden lights, blossoms like stars, wonderful food and better company, they returned to Crowley’s apartment. Aziraphale realized he’d missed it, even for the last few days; missed being surrounded by his demon’s sense of style, missed the plants, the still-sparse but decadent furniture and decorations. Missed the little apple bonsai they’d both been influencing[2].

The one white flower had developed into fruit during his absence. It was still small and green, but promised to grow into a proper apple heavy enough to topple the entire tree, if the little thing’s determination and enthusiasm were anything to go by. Aziraphale gently touched it, approvingly. “You didn’t snip it off.”

A noncommittal little noise was his only answer.

“If you’re going to let it grow, I think it’ll need some support.” The angel turned. “You know, apple blossoms symbolize good fortune and better things to come. Could the apple itself…” He faltered as he saw Crowley approach between the plants. The demon had averted his eyes and was rubbing the back of his neck.

His free hand held out a bouquet.

As Aziraphale stepped towards him, he felt as hazy and weightless as when he’d first laid eyes on Nithael in St. James’s Park, but in a good way, a wonderful way. “I didn’t think you spoke the language of flowers,” he uttered.

“Just a little. Just enough.”

Bursts of carnations, red as blood; an aching heart, admiration. Feathery green ferns; fascination, confidence and shelter. Purple gillyflowers and blue violets, and Aziraphale’s heart skipped a beat, or several. ‘You’ll always be beautiful to me. I’ll always be true.’

Before he could say anything, or even make sense of the overwhelming adoration burning in his chest, Crowley manifested one more flower and added it to the rest. Small, white, understated. A viscaria. ‘Will you dance with me?’

Aziraphale looked up, into impossibly gentle yellow eyes. “Will I…?”

A snap, and Crowley was holding a small flyer. “What would you say to another tango for two, angel? We survived this one, we… might as well…”

It turned out he didn’t need to find any words at all, nor did they need any dancing lessons to meet halfway and spin eachother around the hall in an exhilarated rendition of ‘yes, a thousand times yes’.

He didn’t even need wings to feel lighter than he’d ever done in Heaven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1Aziraphale had inspired the humans in charge of the park to put up pellet dispensers, after finally realizing how bad bread was for ducks. Crowley had made sure the dispensers didn’t return spare change. It’d sort of been their shared park for centuries, after all, they should both have a bit of a say. [return to text]
> 
> 2Whereas Crowley had ominously stated he’d been reading up on the art of bonsai, he’d never actually used any of the pruning, stripping or binding techniques on the little tree, instead sternly trusting it to pick up on his considerable expectations. The tree, more intrigued than scared of its owner, had decided to earn Crowley’s approval of its own, equally considerable free will. [return to text]


	6. If Only

_Trust (noun): firm belief in the nature, reliability or strength of someone or something._

A black Bentley flew into Soho.

It did so in a manner betraying the driver hadn’t taken a single driving lesson in his life and instead relied on miracles to bully the rest of traffic into submission around him, but was now at least attempting to be just a little more considerate for the sake of his less speed-loving passenger.

Said passenger still clung on for dear life, but the driver’s gesture did not go unappreciated. Both wore giddy smiles.

_I can dim the lights and sing you songs full of sad things…_

“We can do the tango just for twooo,” the demon sang, more than a bit off-key but making up for it in enthusiasm. “Come on, angel, sing with me.”

_I can serenade and gently play on your heartstrings…_

“Be your Valentino just for you,” the angel good-naturedly joined in, treacherously lured into a grin just as the car rounded a corner and the resulting centrifugal force flung his heart into his throat. Combined with the endorphins coursing through his corporation, however, he might actually begin to understand why Crowley enjoyed driving like this.

_Ooh love, ooh loverboy…_

The demon had intended the dancing lessons as a surprise for their two-month anniversary. That hadn’t worked out by a mile, but it’d still been worth the wait. Their first lesson had been a total fiasco, of course. They both had a lot to learn and more to _un_ learn; Crowley possessed a flexibility that spoke of his spine and limbs featuring either too many bones or none at all, and whereas Aziraphale could by now somewhat predict where his feet would land while walking, the same certainly didn’t apply to dancing. Aziraphale, on the other hand, had never attempted to stick to the same partner for more than a few seconds, the gavotte being a playful and flighty kissing dance, and would’ve found it hard to keep in sync even if his demon’s movements had made any sense at all. But it had been _fun,_ marvellously so, and that was what counted.

They were still occasionally belting out lyrics as Crowley pulled up at the bookshop. As he locked the car with a snap of his fingers, Aziraphale hurried to the door and woke his ancient gramophone with a snap of his own, allowing the song to continue as Crowley joined him and fell against him with a wide grin. The angel barely had time to miracle free a patch of floor in the middle of the shop under the circular walkway overhead before they dragged eachother into another dance, as if the lesson had never ended – although now they weren’t following any set of steps or instructions, merely figuring things out as they went, laughing at the utter affront to rhythm and grace they were together.

_Hey boy, where’d you get it from? Hey boy, where did you go?_

“Our reward for all those sins and virtues,” Crowley smirked as Aziraphale leaned him backwards.

“For you surviving me, and I you,” the angel beamed down at him. They made an attempt at practicing some of the steps they’d learned, giggling, almost drunk without a drop of alcohol being in play.

Falling into the kiss was as inevitable as the pull of gravity. Their pace slowed as the song ended, hands wandering from their positions, smiles melding into eachother in a way that fit far better than their dancing styles.

_Everything’s alright, just hold on tight  
That’s because I’m a good old-fashioned loverboy…_

And something… shifted.

It felt like a change in the fabric of reality, but it really was a change in the fabric of _them._ It felt instantaneous, but it’d really happened over the course of the many months that lay behind them. It was just that this was the moment that everything collided, like galaxies whirling into eachother, merging into one.

Crowley blazed. Aziraphale glowed. All of a sudden, there was something that hadn’t been there before, within and between them, like an electric circuit being completed. They both drew back, eyes wide, pupils dilated, lips parting at the state of eachother.

“Angel,” Crowley breathed, his eyes fully yellow, scales dancing across his skin in shivering ripples. Aziraphale stared back, his halo shimmering like golden starlight. “Oh, Crowley…”

On New Year’s Eve, just before Xaphan had started their hellfire inferno, the two of them had come close to something at the heart of eachother that’d shone and burned too intensely for either of them to endure, like tightly shut gates with considerable warning signs – _I’m not ready to let you in,_ I’m _not even alright with what’s beyond here._ Now, months later, after everything that’d happened, those signs had been taken down. The gates were open, waiting.

Their hands were still linked.

_I see you._

_You may. Please, please._

They didn’t need prompting to dive back in. Wings unfurled, blowing back books and loose papers, widening their dance floor even further.

For Crowley, it’d been the acknowledgement that the world was going to be alright, that the future wasn’t going anywhere. That Aziraphale was going to be part of it, no matter what. That yes, he hadn’t fit in as an angel and he was a lousy demon at best, but that was a _good_ thing. He was enough. He’d been at peace since New Year’s Day.

For Aziraphale, it’d been the realization, clear as only dream logic could be, that he was truly better off as a Principality than the Cherub he’d been created as. He’d rather choose existence as a lower-ranking angel that could clearly see the world and those in it than being as close to the Almighty as he had been, if that meant being blind to everything else. It’d been the release of six thousand years of misguided thinking and denying what was right in front of him – or at least, Crowley forgiving him for it, which made him able to start forgiving himself.

Every step was a revelation. The angel and demon locked eyes, hands clutching eachother wherever they found purchase, breathless. Their wings arched over their heads in a feathery caress, primaries entwining.

Aziraphale speechlessly swiped a thumb across Crowley’s cheek, trailing iridescent scales in its wake, marveling at what this did to the mind in his embrace. Crowley’s hand curved around Aziraphale’s neck, and his touch sparked golden light and a shuddering ripple effect in the essence he cradled. Breath hitched, wings shivered, and heartbeats grew feverish.

This wasn’t nearly enough contact.

Aziraphale brought a tremulous hand to his bowtie and pulled it free. Crowley’s eyes nearly blackened at the sight.

The demon’s fingers irresistibly trailed gold down to the angel’s collar, and fire down his mind. As Aziraphale started on the buttons of his shirt, Crowley surged forward, pushing away his coat and making short work of his waistcoat. He whined as the angel’s fingers traced patterns of burning, tingling scales over his shoulders and down his chest; this wasn’t fair, Aziraphale was wearing so many damn _layers_ –

“Too fast?” the angel breathed at the sound, just as Crowley finally pushed away his undershirt. The demon’s eyes snapped up at once. “Read my mind,” he rasped out. Then, as if he wasn’t standing halfway in Aziraphale’s thoughts in turn, a question occurred to him. “Wanna make the Effort?” His voice was shaky, unsure. His mind was in turmoil, and he knew the angel could feel it. Strange; things didn’t usually move too fast for _him._

Aziraphale slightly cocked his head, smiled, and did _something_ with his hands and the utter love in his impossible, glowing heart that had Crowley’s torso blacken with scales from neck to hips. “I don’t think there’s any need to do this the human way,” he smiled, eyes shining. The demon threw back his head with a strangled sound and staggered backwards, desperately tugging Aziraphale with him, miracling away all fabric that still kept them apart. The angel reacted just in time, and the demon tripped wings-first into a pile of what must’ve been all the pillows, cushions and blankets that’d been scatted throughout the bookshop, and probably quite a few more that hadn’t been. As they landed, the motes of dust that sprung up instantly glowed like holy light, like fiery sparks, lighting up the air like constellations.

The angel’s hands were still on him, and it took everything he had not to take his true form. He desperately wanted to retain hands of his own; hands to reach out, to touch, to spark that golden light and make his angel feel even half of what he felt right now…

“I do want to make _an_ effort, though,” Aziraphale whispered, and Crowley was fairly sure he was doomed, but what a way to go it was. He fervently captured the angel’s lips, and felt white wings tense up beneath his hands.

For just a heartbeat, everything seemed too much, too intense, too far.

Then they both ventured to where a threshold had once been, and beyond it.

_If only you could see yourself through my eyes._

Aziraphale dove into Crowley’s core and lit it up from the inside with wonderment like only he could. _Lovely,_ he whispered, echoing through smoky coils and dark recesses. _The most lovely creature I’ve ever known. Lovely, beloved, wanted. My heart wouldn’t be complete without you in it._ And he felt Crowley believing it around him, because he saw himself through Aziraphale’s eyes, Aziraphale was a part of him, illuminating his mind and bringing all his gardens into bloom.

His gardens weren’t without leaf spots, but the angel kissed and loved and cherished them all in turn, just as he did his physical body. It didn’t even occur to the demon to doubt any of it, as much as he’d once loathed and attempted to banish all imperfection. How could he, at this point, when he felt what Aziraphale felt, and the angel felt so _much?_

He couldn’t stay behind. He reverently stepped into Aziraphale’s core, embracing it, warming it, finding all the places where the angel’s light was dim. _You’re strong,_ he murmured into them, sparking embers. _So much stronger and braver than you know. Always have been. Enough for the both of us, whatever happens._ And Aziraphale finally believed him, finally saw himself through the demon’s eyes, and Crowley’s faith and admiration started a flame at the heart of him; holy fire, although it couldn’t possibly hurt the demon now. It was his angel’s fire, only warm in the best of ways.

Aziraphale shivered above him, head bowed almost to Crowley’s scaly chest.

_I trust you, the way you trust me._

The angel rushed forward at that, pouring every overwhelmed ounce of himself into the kiss. He knew it was true, felt it the way he felt the pounding of his own heart. Crowley knew what it’d taken to commit sin. The demon knew exactly what he was saying, and he meant it. It was enough to make an angel fall apart. _Oh, you wonderful, beautiful,_ rascal _of a serpent…_

 _Anything, everything._ Crowley chuckled around him, reverberating through them both. _Why, angel, I believe I’m almost tempting you into Lust after all._

“I could never,” Aziraphale managed out loud, out of breath but grinning uncontrollably. _Come here._ His light reached out. After a moment’s hesitation, so did Crowley’s darkness. _May I have this dance?_

 _As long as it’s not a gavotte,_ Crowley shivered.

They drew eachother close, physically and mentally, impossibly closing any remaining distance. It came instinctively, a slow dance that felt far more natural than that of their physical bodies. Those merely clung to eachother, with shuddering wings, shining halos and rippling scales, making the bookshop come alive with waves of entwining energy. But at the same time their ethereal and occult selves spiraled around one another, closer and closer, before melding together in a single, brilliant, ineffable moment. For just an instant, they shone like sunlight through clouds, like moonlight on the ocean, carrying all the raw potential of something just a little bit Almighty.

White light blotted out everything, flashing through the blinds like silver arrows, startling a few passers-by on the street outside. They’d never know what hit them, but they’d carry a very peculiar, giddy and dreamlike feeling with them for days on end.

When he came back to his senses, Aziraphale had somehow ended up on his back in the nest of pillows, which was now also inexplicably littered with something suspiciously similar to flower petals.

Crowley was tightly curled up into himself in snake form on his chest. The angel smoothed a hand over his shining scales, scattering a few petals over him. “Was that you, dear?” he asked softly, smiling uncontrollably.

“Wouldn’t know even if it was,” the serpent muttered, but there was a smile to his voice as well. He uncoiled and nestled his head under the angel’s chin, his tail possessively wrapping around his ribs. In turn, Aziraphale folded one of his wings over himself, shielding his Serpent as he’d once done, and always would.

Both of them were still glowing when they returned to Crowley’s apartment, after a long and very pleasant day. It was evening, and as neither of them felt like leaving the other’s side for even a moment, they’d elected to settle somewhere with a bedroom.

The moment before Crowley unlocked his door, he felt something had changed in his flat. Perhaps it was because of his approach with the remnants of that impossible silver light still locked in his heart. Perhaps it’d already happened earlier that day, or perhaps it’d been inevitable no matter what he’d have done. Either way, something had happened without his permission, he could tell. Something had _rebelled._

When he opened the door, he was greeted by a fully grown apple tree in the middle of the hallway, fruit- and flower-laden branches brushing the walls and ceiling, roots digging deep into splintered slate-grey tiles.

Crowley stared.

By his side, Aziraphale clasped his hands to his chest and rushed to the slender trunk, marveling at the luxurious canopy. “Oh, Crowley, look, it’s… oh, it’s _just_ like…” He faltered, his words visibly falling through his fingers before he could speak them, utterly unraveled by the sight. Crowley, still frozen at the door, already beginning to fume out of force of habit, blinked and softened at the state of his angel. Something clicked, seeing him under the tree, as if he belonged there. The only thing missing was a flaming sword, but Aziraphale had given that one up willingly, so it really wasn’t part of the picture anymore.

He sauntered forwards, the calm and cool facade plastered back on. “What was it you said? If I was going to let it grow, it was going to need some support?”

Aziraphale turned, his smile like the sun, a knowing glint to his eyes. “I think that applies to all of us, dear, and it’s exactly what happened.”

And the Serpent removed his sunglasses, closed his mouth and thoughtfully snaked an arm around the Angel of the Eastern Gate. His other hand slid over the branches, testing. Yes. Those _would_ feel just right under his scales.

He allowed himself a smile at last.

Together, they basked in the Eden they’d created for themselves, out of place and yet perfectly at home in the middle of their beloved mortal city, their beloved mortal world, delicately suspended between virtue and sin.

“Crowley?”

“Hmm?”

“That was a _wonderful_ dance.”

“Anytime, angel. Anytime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heaven is a place on Earth. <3
> 
> Can I get a wahoo? This fic has been a ride and a half to write, and I loved every second of it. Please leave a comment if you’ve read this far. ^^


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